


Still Falls the Night

by FrostyEmma, Madara_Nycteris



Category: Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017, Dracula Influence/References, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Foursome - F/F/F/M, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Tony Stark, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Semi-Public Sex, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-09 20:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 52,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyEmma/pseuds/FrostyEmma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madara_Nycteris/pseuds/Madara_Nycteris
Summary: “I want you too,” Steve whispered against Bucky’s neck. “I’ve only ever wanted you. I’ll only ever want you.” He squeezed Bucky as tightly as he could. “Forever.”Bucky’s fingers curled into Steve’s hair. “For as long as you live,” he murmured. “The rest of your life.”“Forever,” Steve repeated.Bucky stilled for a moment. Finally he said, “You don’t know what you’re asking, Stevie.”Long ago, two brave warriors fell in combat one after another while fighting against the cult of Hydra. That should have been the end, but magic, science, and luck intervened in strange ways.Four hundred years later, a charming nobleman appears in London, searching for his lost love.An erotic, Stucky flavored, Victorian vampire AU, based on the 1992 film,Bram Stoker’s Dracula, written and illustrated forCaptain America Reverse Big Bang 2017.With a happy ending, because they deserve it.





	1. Let Me Be the Only One

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a blast writing this story, based on Madara-Nycteris' absolutely gorgeous art. A total of three beautiful images (including the banner) are sprinkled throughout the chapters. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my usual betas, especially my partner, who put up with this story a lot longer than most people might have. 
> 
> This fic is based on the 1992 film, _Bram Stoker's Dracula_ , which is epic, melodramatic cinema in all its early 90's grandiosity. (It's also a visual feast for the eyes.)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/149453653@N06/35083547032/in/dateposted-public/)

_The year was 1462._

_The Holy Roman Empire had fallen. From deep within the heart of Prussia arose a dark and insidious shadow - the cult of the Hydra, whose countless warriors’ only purpose was to die in battle and in the service of their evil masters. What did it matter if one head was cut off, when two more would rise to take its place? This overwhelmingly superior force rose like a vast wave, threatening to crash over Europe and doom its people to everlasting darkness._

_Yet there was resistance. From Transylvania arose the Knights of the Sacred Order of the Shield. Amongst them were two warriors, friends since childhood. The smaller and more frail of the two, though weakened by childhood illness, nevertheless possessed a strong will and an even stronger sense of honor. He willingly submitted to an arcane ritual which granted him superhuman power and agility, transforming him into a man worthy to bear the Shield of the Order’s name._

_The other warrior, the protector and constant companion of his weaker friend in childhood, proved to be unequaled on the field of battle._

_The two became lovers._

_On the eve of what was to be their greatest battle, the dark haired warrior fell in combat. In his grief, the bearer of the Shield challenged the leader of the cult of the Hydra. And though he finally felled his evil adversary, a powerful dark spell engulfed him. He was frozen in magical ice and carried away by the river into which he fell, never to be seen again._

_That is, until he was found by Her Majesty’s Navy on a routine vessel repositioning exercise._

_Fate is funny that way, isn’t it?_

**_\- From the journal of Commodore Nicholas J. Fury, H.M.S Alpha  
5 May 1895_ **

\---

**Purfleet Asylum - London**  
**May 1897**

“Master… I’ve done everything that you’ve asked of me, and yet I’m still here.”

Clint clung to the bars of the tiny cell’s window, staring up at the sliver of moon that hung low in the dark sky. He should have been outside. 

He should have been perched on the roof.

Waiting.

“I’ve made all the preparations. I got all the stuff.” He frowned slightly. “All of it. And it was a lot of stuff.”

“Clint?” 

Abruptly Clint dropped down from the window and whirled around to face his wife, resplendent (as always) in a gown of red and black.

Had she heard? She might have heard.

He tried not to look too guilty.

“Nat.” He kept his hands behind his back. “Hi, Nat.”

“Hi yourself.” She frowned slightly. “Haven’t we talked about climbing the walls? You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

“I wasn’t eating flies,” he said quickly, and then grimaced.

Dammit.

“Yeah.” Her frown deepened, and her eyebrows knit. “I just bet you weren’t.”

“When the rewards are given,” Clint said, “I’ll be one of the first benedictions.” He frowned slightly, eyes straying to the ceiling. “No, that’s not right. Benevolences?” He looked back at his wife. “Help me out, Nat?”

“You probably mean ‘beneficiaries’.” She rolled her eyes. “And we’ve talked about this too, Clint. Who’s going to be giving these rewards? And for what?” She lifted her chin, indicating the flies struggling in the spiderweb in the corner of his padded cell. “All you’re doing is depriving hungry spiders of their own dinner.”

Clint sighed.

Soon.

The Master would come soon.

\---

**the law firm of Carter and Phillips - London**  
**the following morning**

“Poor Mr. Barton’s quite lost his mind.”

Sharon listened with half an ear to her aunt’s words. She’d never quite warmed up to Mr. Barton; he’d struck her from the very beginning of her tenure at the firm as incredibly odd.

“Well, he was a poor solicitor anyway.” Peggy stirred her cup of tea with a small silver spoon. “Heart was never quite in it. You could tell the man really preferred to be on a shooting range somewhere, but…”

“You got that impression too?” Sharon smiled and shook her head. “I’m glad I wasn’t the only one.”

“Oh no.” Peggy lifted the teacup to her lips and took a small sip before continuing. “But he found that wife of his, and marriage changes a man.” She set the teacup down and fixed Sharon with a shrewd look. “Which you’ll soon discover.”

“I don’t know how much marriage can change a man like Steve Rogers.” Sharon raised her eyebrow at her Aunt Peggy. “Especially if it’s just marriage to a legal secretary.”

She’d wanted, of course, to become a full-fledged solicitor like her aunt. But apparently, there were just as many dues to be paid in the legal profession for a relative of the owner as there were for anyone fresh out of law school. And so it would take some time for her to work her way up, which made for some difficulties with her upcoming marriage. After all, if a woman was going to work at all, shouldn’t she be working a more glamorous job?

Not to mention a better-paying one.

Peggy looked at Sharon thoughtfully for a moment. “You want to prove that you’re more than a legal secretary, do you? Though I highly doubt your fiance looks at you as ‘just’ anything.”

“I wouldn’t have gone through law school if I’d wanted to stay a legal secretary.” Sharon looked at her aunt from under a raised eyebrow. “I owe it to myself to become a solicitor, and I owe it to Steve to do my part in our marriage.”

“Well then.” Peggy nodded and withdrew a slim dossier from the desk drawer. “I’d like you to take over from where Mr. Barton left off.” She slid the dossier across the desk. “A certain Count Iarnă has been purchasing properties around London in preparation for his relocation from Transylvania in Romania.”

“Well.” Sharon’s expression immediately brightened as she reached out for the dossier. “I asked for excitement.” 

Leafing through the contents of the dossier, she was carried away by thoughts of the size of the commission the firm would make from the sale of these properties, the majority of which were so expensive as to be almost ridiculous. And if she could succeed where Mr. Barton had not, then surely the road from there to successful solicitorship would not be long at all.

“You’d have to leave for Transylvania immediately though.” Peggy must have caught the fleeting look of shock on Sharon’s face and she returned the look with a frown. “Opportunities like this don’t come by often, Sharon.” Her expression softened somewhat. “Especially for women.”

“Yes.” Sharon nodded, still trying to process everything that had happened so quickly. “Yes, I know, but… immediately?” She frowned. “I hope Steve’ll take it well. Especially on such short notice.”

\---

**Stark Estate - London**  
**that afternoon**

Steve sat out in the gazebo, his sketch pad in his lap, and tried for the dozenth time to get the silhouetting just right on the stone facing of the manor house. He loved drawing Tony’s house every bit as much as he loved getting to pretend he lived there - which he’d obviously never have been able to afford on his meager and unreliable income as an artist - and yet he still couldn’t get it down on paper as perfectly as he would have liked.

It was still odd, two years after he’d been picked up out of the ocean and thawed out, to see how much the world had changed. Which was probably the main reason he felt so at-home there at the Estate, surrounded by old-growth forests and living in a house that was at least partially as old as the castles he remembered from long ago. 

The Estate felt like an island of refuge in the middle of a sea of modernity. Outside, in the city of London, everything moved at a pace rapid enough to make his head spin. Outside, there were simply too many people to be believed. Outside, there was noise at every moment. But here, at least, he could sometimes pretend that four centuries hadn’t passed at all.

God, even thinking it seemed absurd.

“Drawing the estate again?” a voice said behind him, and he turned to see Sharon in a pale blue gown, her blonde hair swept up off her shoulders in a neat chignon. 

“Till I finally get it right.” He smiled and got to his feet, leaving his pad and pencil on the stone bench and taking his fiancée’s hands in his own. “Is it teatime already? I didn’t expect to see you until a lot later in the day.”

A small smile danced across Sharon’s mouth. “I think you’ve drawn straight through tea.” She hesitated a moment, then, “If you grow too accustomed to the estate, I’m not sure you’ll ever grow accustomed to a more modest lifestyle.”

“Trust me, I’d rather have a more modest lifestyle.” Steve looked around at the high stone wall that trailed off into the distance, and at the massive manor house. “When I was a kid, I worked in places this big. Nobody I’d ever spoken to could have even come close to being able to own one.” He smiled and gave Sharon’s hands a bit of a squeeze. “Believe me, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Well…” Sharon’s mouth thinned into a line. She took a breath. “I’m leaving for Transylvania first thing in the morning. On business for Aunt Peggy’s firm.”

“You’re what now?” Steve froze, shocked. “Wait. You mean tomorrow morning? For how long?”

“Not too terribly long.” Expressions of distress and resolve competed for room on Sharon’s face. “It’s a huge opportunity, you see, and…” Abruptly she turned away. “It’s a huge opportunity for me. And it will secure a future for us.”

Steve’s face fell at that. Of course it would be about securing their future. Because as much as he loved Sharon, as much as he would have loved to be able to provide for her the way he knew he should have, he had no skills that were good for anything in this time. 

In a world where the lowliest and least skilled foot soldier could have killed the noblest knight in his finest armor simply by pulling the trigger of a pistol, his own warrior’s skills were useless. And aside from fighting, all he knew how to do was draw. The task of providing for the both of them had, out of necessity, fallen to Sharon. And being a woman, she had to work twice as hard simply to keep pace with her colleagues.

“Well, then.” He tried to muster a supportive and encouraging smile. “I suppose you’ll have to go.”

\---

**_From the journal of Sharon Carter_ **  
**_25 May 1897_ **

_I left Budapest early this morning. It’s very odd traveling as a woman unaccompanied. Fellow passengers have given me looks of pity, scorn, and wariness. And yet, the experience is strangely freeing._

_I shouldn’t reflect on it too terribly much._

_Count Iarnă’s home is deep in Transylvania’s Carpathian Mountains, known to be one of the wildest and least charted places in all of Europe. And yet, that is where Steve fell in the battle against the Hydra cult so long ago._

_Life is very strange that way._

\---

**_A letter from Count Iarnă to Sharon Carter_ **  
**_27 May 1897_ **

_My dear Miss Carter,_

_Welcome to the Carpathians. I look forward to your arrival. At the Borgo Pass, my carriage will be waiting for you. I hope your journey from London has been just aces and that you’ll enjoy your stay in my beautiful homeland._

_Your pal, your buddy, your friend,_  
_J.B Iarnă_

\---

**Stark Estate - London**  
**28 May 1897**

It occurred to Steve, as he sat there on the edge of an old well in the gardens sketching some of the more interesting-looking old trees, that he’d have preferred to marry Sharon in a quick private ceremony before she left than to have to wait weeks until she came back. He’d have been perfectly happy to leave the celebration until after Sharon’s return. He might have even been able to lobby Sharon’s Aunt Peggy to lay out the additional expenses to let him go to Transylvania along with her, they being newlyweds and all.

But thoughts of traveling to Transylvania alongside Sharon soon gave way to thoughts simply of seeing his old homeland again. He envied Sharon her experience, and - though he’d never in a million years have admitted as much to her - occasionally felt that the opportunity was somewhat wasted on her. After all, for her it was simply a business trip - the most important one she’d ever been on, but a business trip nonetheless. 

For him, though, it would have meant the chance to stand on the soil of his native country for the first time in nearly half a millennium. The chance to see the Carpathian Mountains again, to breathe in the smell of the thick forests and taste the crispness of the fresh river waters. 

The chance to be home again.  
\---

**_From the journal of Sharon Carter_ **  
**_29 May 1897_ **

_I have shared a passenger coach with two Roma travelers these past few nights as we head toward the Borgo Pass. As my destination nears, their apprehension only increases, which has added fuel to my own sense of anxiety. Yet I wanted an adventure, and here I am, so-_

The carriage jolted abruptly, dragging Sharon’s pen across the page and ending with an ink splotch that no amount of blotting would conceal. 

She sighed and closed the book, only to find her Roma companions looking at her, their expressions unreadable. They were twins, and though one wouldn’t know by looking at them, it seemed much more obvious in the silent exchange that passed between the two of them.

“Not many people stop at the Borgo Pass,” offered the woman, her words slow and her accent strange. “Especially not foreigners.”

“Well, as I said,” Sharon tucked the book into her carpetbag, “I’ve important business that brings me out here.”

“Important business?” The man seemed to scoff. Unlike his sister, his words were very quick. His hair, as silver as an old man’s despite his obvious youth, caught the moonlight in a very arresting manner. “More important than your life?”

The woman elbowed her brother, and there was a low exchange of guttural Romani language.

“What my brother means to say,” the woman continued, glaring darkly at her brother, “is that there are many dangers out here. You should come with us, rather than waiting at the Borgo Pass.”

“I won’t be unattended.” Sharon forced a smile onto her face, though whether it was to cover her own apprehension or soothe theirs, she couldn’t say. “Count Iarnă’s carriage will be waiting to collect me.”

At the mention of the Count’s name, though, the woman’s face went white and her eyes widened. “Oh no.” She shook her head emphatically. “You must not go with him.”

The woman’s brother was far less composed. “You’re insane, woman. Willingly allowing the _strigoi_ to collect you, to bring you to his house where the spirits of the dead never rest. You might as well -”

The woman silenced her brother again with a sharp elbow, a dark glare, and a loud burst of Romani that went too fast for Sharon to even try to translate. That word, though - _strigoi_ \- seemed to come up quite often, so much so that she made a note to look it up once she’d gotten off the coach.

Which seemed to be right then. The carriage slowed to a stop and the driver actually _threw_ her bag to the ground.

For a moment, Sharon hesitated. It would have been very easy to simply stay on the coach and travel onward with the twins.

But then what would she tell Aunt Peggy? That superstitions and folktales had overridden common sense and duty? That she had let the firm down, let her aunt down, and let _herself_ down, simply because of a little anxiety?

Never.

The Roma woman must have sensed her decision, for she leaned over suddenly and pressed something into Sharon’s hands. She didn’t have to look down or even open her hands to know that it was a small crucifix, and she couldn’t explain why the fact it had been given to her made her feel even more uneasy.

“For the dead travel fast.” 

This was evidently all the explanation the woman felt was necessary for the crucifix, and she woman and her brother looked down at Sharon from the coach with what looked like pity in their eyes. A moment later, the coachman cracked his whip and urged the horses on, and Sharon was left standing there alone. 

White mist swirled around her ankles, obscuring the ground from view. An old signpost, battered and weathered to the point of being indecipherable, was the only indication that this part of the road was any different than any other. And - most chillingly of all - there were no sounds whatsoever coming from the forest. She’d expected owls, crickets, the chittering of bats, but instead there was a silence so thick that even the soft crunch of the dry leaves beneath her feet as she turned in a slow circle was deafening.

She had sat down on her bag, both to keep from having to hold it and to keep from losing track of it in the thickening mist, and was trying hard to will down her growing unease, when the oppressive silence was shattered by a sound more disturbing than the silence had been; a sound that made her jump to her feet.

A lone wolf howled. Not in the distance, but somewhere close by. And a moment later, the long mournful sound was followed by a chorus of others. 

Sharon picked up her bag, gripping the handles tightly in both hands, and suddenly felt very foolish for not having gone along with the twins in the coach. Her ambitions, her dreams of closing this portfolio of transactions and making her solicitor’s career, were going to end with her being eaten alive by a pack of wolves in a forgotten corner in the far east of Europe, so remote that there weren’t even proper roads or signposts. 

Another coach clamored out of the mist. 

The mist seemed to billow around it, muffling any sound from its wheels or even the four massive black horses which drew it. A pair of ornate iron lanterns flanked its front, lanterns which burned with a curious green flame. And between the lanterns sat the driver, clad in a high-necked black cloak and a mask or helmet that resembled an old plague-doctor’s mask: a long and curved bird’s beak of a nose, with round lenses that reflected the light redly as the driver wordlessly turned his head to look at her directly.

Sharon had a split second of sheer panic as the driver reached out a hand towards her - a hand clad in what appeared to be a gauntlet of dully gleaming silver metal. This hand seized her shoulder with superhuman strength, and before she could protest - not that she would have even been able to breathe deeply enough or force her vocal cords to work - she felt herself lifted bodily and deposited in the coach, bags and all.

They were off a moment later.

The carriage wound through the forest at what seemed to Sharon to be an absolutely suicidal pace. The driver must have been superhumanly skilled to be able to see where he was going with only the flickering green light of the lanterns to guide him. Still, every small bump in the road made the carriage pitch and jostle madly from the breakneck speed, so much so that at one point she slid open the side window and called out to the driver.

“Is it much farther? The castle, I mean.”

The driver turned his head slightly, the bird’s beak of his mask coming into view, and took one hand off the reins to point at the horizon with a single finger. And as they rounded the next bend, the forest gave way to reveal a massive old ruin of a castle, its crumbling towers silhouetted against the full moon.

When the carriage slowed to a halt in the courtyard of the castle, Sharon was only too eager to get out. The driver, after depositing her heavy bags on the ground quickly and efficiently, was back in his seat and urging the horses on before she could even turn around to look at the place. And then, there was a flickering of light - that same green flame that had lit the lamps of the carriage - coming from an open doorway at the top of a long set of stairs off to her right.

The light came from an ornate lantern held aloft by an old man. He was very tall, with waxy pale skin and an unruly mane of long white hair that fell straight back from his forehead. His pallor was accentuated by the fact that he was clad from head to toe in black, with a long black trailing cloak whose edge brushed the floor. As he descended the stairs, Sharon noted that his eyes were a frosty blue and that his nose was long and sharp. His face gave the overall impression of being hard, as though it had been carved from marble.

“Count…” She had to swallow to make her voice work properly. “Count Iarnă?”

The barest flicker of a smile passed his lips, as if he were thinking of a private joke that only he was in on.

“You could say that.” He held out his left hand, beckoning her forward, and she noticed that unlike his right hand, his left hand wore a glove of black leather. “Welcome to my home, Miss Carter. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Your home?” Sharon looked up at the crumbling walls of the castle. Some of them had been shored up with timbers, others with great frameworks of rusted iron, but it hardly looked inhabitable, much less safe.

“My home.” Again that smile, and Sharon caught a flash of pointed white teeth in the glint of the lantern. 

Nonsense. A trick of the light. She wasn’t going to give into hysterical fantasies, when she was clearly just anxious from the carriage ride and the unsettling words of her Roma companions and, of course, the wolves.

Count Iarnă eyed her for a moment with a look that felt at once both threatening and alluring. “Enter freely and of your own will.” He turned to head back up the stairs. “A lady should be happy to come in, after all.”

Sharon hesitated for a long moment, trying to summon all her goals to mind. She would close these transactions. She’d be responsible for netting Aunt Peggy and her firm a very sizeable commission. She’d make solicitor within a month’s time - possibly even partner - and she’d owe it all to being able to bear up under the stress of this unsettling place and this unsettling man. It would only be a few days’ work, after all.

“Thank you,” she finally said, forcing a smile onto her face and taking the first step forward. “It’s been something of a long journey, and you’re right. I am happy to come in.”

Count Iarnă looked over his shoulder at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Madam.”

She followed the Count and his guttering green lamp through long stone hallways hung with decrepit tapestries and adorned with medieval weaponry of all types. These seemed to form the bulk of his decorations, and they seemed to have been treated with greater care than the castle itself. Out the narrow slits of windows - and once through a large hole in the wall where the neglected masonry had crumbled and never been repaired - she could see the grotesque figures of gargoyles in the moonlight, and the jagged peaks of the mountains in the distance. It made her think of every unsettling word the twins had said to her in the coach, and made her unconsciously reach into her pocket to touch the crucifix the woman had given her.

But before long, the Count had led her to a long wooden table draped with a threadbare red cloth, on which was laid out a meal for one.

He placed the lantern on the table and pulled out a chair for Sharon, and once she was seated, he poured her a large goblet of ruby red wine.

“My apologies, but I’ve already dined this evening.” He took a seat on the other side of the table. “And I don’t drink...” Again that small smile. “... wine.”

After a few minutes of working at the chicken dinner, which was peppery enough to require drinking more wine than she might have liked, Sharon looked over at her host. And maybe it was the wine that ended up doing the actual talking.

“My companions on the ride over seemed to think this castle was haunted.” She took another sip of wine; the red pepper on the chicken was persistently spicy. “They kept mentioning a word that I meant to look up in my travel dictionary, but you would likely know it. What does ‘ _strigoi’_ mean?”

The Count raised an eyebrow at that. “You’ve been talking to the Roma.” He made a ‘tsk’ sound. “They love to tell a good story to an unsuspecting, pretty traveler.”

She had to bite down hard on the urge to ask him what her supposed prettiness had to do with her superstitious traveling companions. The wine was obviously at work.

“They were Roma, yes.” She thought of asking for a glass of water, but there were no servants to be seen, and asking the Count himself would have probably been even more rude than she imagined it would be. So the wine would have to do. “But what does it mean?”

“Some say the _strigoi_ are the troubled spirits of the dead, who have risen from their graves to walk the earth in a state of endless torment.” A smirk flickered across his mouth but didn’t land. “But that’s very dramatic, isn’t it?”

Sharon took another bite of spicy chicken, and the Count moved to top up her wine goblet before continuing.

“While others say that the _strigoi_ were the tortured victims of the ancient Hydra cult from so long ago.” He looked at her. “That in the cult’s attempts to create their own super soldiers, they instead created damned souls with superhuman powers.”

“Now that’s interesting.” She took another sip of the wine, hardly noticing that there was more in the goblet than there had been before. “Wasn’t this very castle once owned by that cult?”

The Count raised a pointed eyebrow. “Oh yes. Very interesting.” He rose from his seat and drifted over to the window, staring out at the night sky. “Legend has it that the cult captured a warrior of the Sacred Order of the Shield, tortured him, and made him into a _strigoi_ in order to gain control over all of Europe.”

He turned and looked at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “But the warrior turned on them, slaughtered them all, and drank their blood to give himself eternal strength and youth. And then he took the castle for himself - a poor prize, considering all he had lost.”

“Ah.” Sharon found she had little else to say to that, instead taking a very long drink of wine. 

This castle and everything around it felt _wrong_ somehow, and the Count’s unsettling story was helping not at all. She found herself giving a slight, nervous laugh and hoping that they could retire for the evening and get on to the actual business the following day. Perhaps the place would feel less foreboding in the sunlight.

Instead, she found herself ushered into the library and shown to a creaking chair of ancient leather and wood. The smell of decay seemed to hang heavy in the air, and she wondered how many of the books that crammed the sagging shelves had fallen victim to rot or bookworms. But she sat there, in a decrepit chair at a decrepit table, an antique silver inkpot before her and a quill pen in hand, putting the finishing touches on the documents that would secure her future.

“I look forward to coming to London.” The Count stood by a large map of London, which had been affixed to the wall. “To see all of the sights and drink in all of the people.” He hummed to himself. “Especially the people.”

Sharon tried very hard not to take notice of the Count’s words, or even of the Count himself. All that mattered to her was completing the transactions, preferably without embarrassing herself, and getting back home to Steve and a promising career.

“There,” she said, signing her name to the final document with a flourish and dusting the surface with blotting powder. “It’s official, Count. You are now the owner of Carfax Abbey in Purfleet, along with the rest.” She forced a congratulatory smile onto her face and held out the completed deed. “My congratulations.”

The end of her sleeve brushed against something as she held the papers out to the Count, sending it clattering to the tabletop. When she looked down, she saw that it was her tiny framed portrait of Steve - the one she usually kept on her desk at the office; the one she’d brought with her for company.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The deed remained in Sharon’s hand, seemingly forgotten, as the Count reached past her and picked up the portrait. 

His eyes gleamed with a strange light, and when he spoke, his voice seemed strained. Awkward, even. “Who is… who is he?”

“My fiance.” Sharon found herself suddenly wanting to snatch the portrait out of the Count’s hand and run. There was something uncomfortably intense about the way he stared at it, captivated and seemingly cognizant of nothing else. “Steve. We’re going to be married when I return to London.”

“Steve,” he echoed. It wasn’t a question. “Married.” Another long pause, then, “And how did you meet this fella, this… _Steve_ … of yours?”

“Well, that’s quite a story.” 

Sharon forced a small smile onto her face. In all honesty, it wasn’t a story she wanted to tell in all its detail - how the legal issues surrounding Steve still being alive had been turned over to Aunt Peggy, how the sea captain Commodore Fury had been housing him for some time but had to return to sea, how he’d brought Steve around to one of Aunt Peggy’s social gatherings, how Aunt Peggy had introduced them, and how it really had been magical.

“My aunt,” she finally said, reaching out her hand for the portrait. “She introduced us. He happened to be at a small party she was hosting, and we got to talking.” Sharon wanted desperately to change the subject. “Are you married, Count?”

“Married?” The Count finally looked up at her, a strange, lost expression on his face. “No.” His gaze drifted to the far window. “Promised? Oh yes. But the person died.” A small, unreadable smile flitted across his lips. “Ages ago.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t entirely sure what to say about that, and so fell back on a polite “I’m sorry,” hoping that the Count would pick up the legal thread once more and return the conversation to one she felt comfortable having.

“Love is a precious commodity, Miss Carter, and everyone wants a piece.” He looked at her and pressed the portrait into her free hand, then took the deed and rolled it up without so much as a glance. “You’re a very lucky woman, and will no doubt make a fine wife to your fella.”

Sharon raised an eyebrow at the incongruous word. She might have put it down to English not being the Count’s first language, but he seemed to speak it perfectly otherwise. Still, he’d handed the portrait back to her, and she clutched it tightly in her hand. 

“Thank you very much, Count. I certainly hope I can make him as happy as he makes me.”

Another flicker of a smile ghosted across his mouth. “I’m certain. Now.” He placed a fresh sheet of parchment in front of her. “Write to your firm and tell them you’ll be staying with me for a month. Before I go to London, I need to be properly schooled in culture and etiquette, and who better than a solicitor to do such a thing?”

“I…” She gaped. Actually gaped, openmouthed, at this sudden suggestion. “A month?” She shook her head, laughing nervously. “Count, London is more than used to visitors from abroad. Take my word for it; you don’t need lessons in English custom and etiquette. And even if you did, you’d certainly want someone much more refined than I am.”

“Oh no,” he said softly. “I want you, Miss Carter. And I’ll take no refusal.” His eyes glittered redly in the light.

It had to be a trick of her mind. Of course.


	2. To Keep You From the Cold

**Stark Estate - London**  
**3 June 1897**

It was raining outside, huge gray sheets of it, and so Steve had abandoned his usual post out in the gazebo. Instead, he sat on the bench of one of the massive dormer windows in one of the turrets of the manor house, his sketchpad on his lap, idly scribbling in between bouts of watching the patterns the raindrops made on the glass. 

Before she’d left, Sharon had chided him about getting too used to living in the lap of luxury. It wasn’t the first time she’d brought that up to him either; she seemed to think that he wouldn’t be happy with her and what she could offer him in comparison to the gold-plated lifestyle Tony lived. But Tony was his friend, and even if Steve was only a penniless artist engaged to a legal secretary, Tony didn’t mind in the slightest.

At the very least, the arrangement gave Tony a captive audience to talk at, which seemed to suit him just fine.

“Afternoon, Icebox.” 

Steve turned to see Tony standing in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, braces hanging loose around his legs, and a bottle of sarsaparilla dangling between his fingers. 

“You missed tea,” Tony continued. “Miss Potts wasn’t happy.” He frowned slightly. “Seemed to think it was my fault, somehow. Even asked me if I locked you away in a tower somewhere. As if I would lock you in a tower when a root cellar would do just as nicely.”

“I’d be happier in a wine cellar, tell you the truth.” Steve smiled, getting back to his drawing. “That’d be a win for everyone involved.”

“What are you drawing? Is it dirty? I hope it’s dirty.” Tony was over Steve’s shoulder suddenly, peering down at the sketchpad. He snorted. “You know, you’d be doing a lot better for yourself if you’d start drawing penny-poppers.”

“Not my style.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Though you’d probably be my best customer.” He pretended to consider for a long moment. “What about a commission?”

“Right now?” Tony set the sarsaparilla bottle aside and began undoing his cravat. “Right then, let’s do this. Make it look good though, as we’ll need it for tonight.”

“What?” Steve looked up at Tony with a grimace. “I’m not drawing you naked. I meant I’d draw dirty pictures for you if you paid me… never mind.” He sighed and shook his head. “Anyway, what’s going on tonight that you’d need nude portraits of yourself for it?” He winced. “And do I really want to know the answer to that?”

“Of course you want to know the answer to that. You’re burning up with curiosity now.” Tony finished undoing the cravat and tossed it aside, then held up his hand. “Don’t deny it. I can see it on your face. It’s a very curious face.”

“So tell me already.” Steve leaned back in the window seat. “And keep the rest of your clothes on, for God’s sake.”

Tony pulled a face at that. “Oh please, if there’s a god, he wouldn’t need me to walk around in a dinner jacket for his sake. But,” he sat down next to Steve on the window seat, “for the sake of you, Captain Persnickety, I’ll keep my clothes on.” He picked up the sarsaparilla bottle and took a swig. “Don’t want you to get your knickers in a wad, after all.”

“Please, Tony.” Steve put on his very best pained expression. “Just tell me what’s going on tonight. I’ve never met someone who can go off on so many tangents at once.”

“Did you know in Wakanda,” Tony said around the mouth of his sarsaparilla bottle, “they’ve found a way to harness whales for flight?” 

“Tony!” Steve snapped his sketch pad closed as loudly as he could manage. “Focus!”

“Whoa there, Crusader.” Tony held up a hand. “Don’t storm the gates just yet. Anyway, you do remember that, unlike you, I am still very happily unattached?” Before Steve could reply, Tony plowed forward. “Well, just like all good things, that needs to come to an end. Must merge the estates, consolidate the wealth, hold onto power, blah blah blah, it’s all very tedious, but the long and short of it is that I’m getting married.”

“Married?” Now this was interesting. The expression ‘not the marrying kind’ had never applied to anyone quite as well as it did to Tony, and yet here Steve was hearing it from Tony’s own mouth. “To whom? And how is it that this is the first I’m hearing about it?”

Tony shrugged. “Idea’s been cooking in the lab for a while, but I figured it would take a party to make it real. So you’re invited. Miss Carter’s invited, though she’s currently on her Romanian holiday. That lady doctor who runs the asylum is invited, though only a lunatic would marry a black widow.” He snapped his fingers. “You know she’s married to a certifiable lunatic? Locked up her own husband and everything.”

“Yeah, well, good thing my fiancée’s nice and normal.” Steve shook his head. “I’m not interested in a lady who’s surrounded by lunatics all day long, to the point where she’ll lock up her own husband.” 

Tony tapped his fingers against the sarsaparilla bottle. “Rumor has it she abandoned another husband somewhere on the Continent. Or maybe she killed him, took the money, and ran?” Another languid shrug. “Anyway, that’s why I invited her. She sounds like fun.”

“Fun.” Steve shook his head again. He seemed to do that an awful lot around Tony. “You and I have very different definitions of that word.” He raised an eyebrow. “But you still haven’t told me who you’re getting married to. Or why you haven’t run the idea by me yet. You usually tell me everything.”

“Like I said, it took a party to make it feel real.” Tony drained off the sarsaparilla and set the bottle aside. “Anyway, if I could have it my way, I’d marry the American cowboy, the housekeeper, and the dashing lord all at once. Why not? Have a little bit of fun every night, maybe have a little bit of fun all together? Not a bad way to be if you can get it.”

“American cowboy?” Steve was sure the expression on his face marked him as hopelessly lost. Which he was, no doubt. “Look, Tony. I’m pretty certain I no longer have any idea what’s going on, so can you just spell it out for me slowly and carefully? Please?”

“I’m inviting a bunch of people to compete for my hand in marriage.” Tony shrugged yet again. “Pretty simple, actually, but then again, when you’re old and infirm, taking in new information can be difficult, so I’ll try to keep it nice and slow for you.”

“Right.” Steve looked sourly over at Tony. “And there’s an American cowboy somewhere in there, or is that just some sort of archetype you’re lusting after? Along with the housekeeper and the dashing lord?”

“Well, the housekeeper is Miss Potts and the dashing lord is an old friend.” Tony hopped off the window bench and headed for the door. “The American cowboy is here on business, but I thought I’d throw him into the mix anyway, make the game a bit more competitive for all.” He waved over his shoulder. “Ciao, bella. Do clean up before the party, would you? I plan to show you off as well.”

\---

**Stark Estate - London**  
**that evening**

There was only so much ‘cleaning up’ Steve could do in order to make himself presentable for one of Tony’s parties. None of Tony’s clothes fit him, after all, and so he had to make do with his Sunday suit, which he knew would look downright shabby next to the outrageously expensive outfits the other guests were bound to show up in. 

He’d just have to do the best he could with a charming smile, he supposed, and hope no one paid too much attention to how low-rent his clothing was. As it turned out, though, Steve’s outfit wasn’t the oddest one on display that night.

“Mr. Samuel Wilson,” announced Tony’s butler Jarvis. “From the United States of America.”

Mr. Samuel Wilson from the United States of America turned out to be a cowboy. An honest-to-God cowboy, complete with a wide-brimmed ten-gallon cowboy hat and high-heeled boots that Steve could just make out under his dark trouser cuffs. He had warm brown skin, close-cropped curly hair that became visible when he handed his massive hat off to Jarvis, and a very striking smile.

“I’d marry him if he were eligible,” Tony muttered into Steve’s ear. “But he’s here on business. Owns a series of ranches in Texas or Virginia or wherever they have ranches over there. Wants to start importing juicy American steaks and bison to our fair isle. Could be big money in that.”

“And you’ve got eyes only for his big money, I’m sure,” Steve muttered back with a smile. “Not going to try to work in a little bonus for yourself as part of the deal?”

Tony glanced at him. “With a mind like that, you really ought to be drawing penny-poppers.” He elbowed Steve in the side as Miss Potts, resplendent in a pale grey gown, escorted Mr. Wilson over to them. 

“I’m only like this around you,” Steve retorted with a small smile and returned the elbow. “You’re a terrible influence, you know.”

“He’s a terrible influence to everyone.” Miss Potts’ hand was tucked into the crook of Mr. Wilson’s arm, but she gestured with her free hand as she made the introductions among all of them, ending with a firm, “Do play nice,” in Tony’s direction.

“Play nice?” Tony pointed to his own chest. “Me? Then what’d we bring the cowboy all the way from Texas for?”

“Virginia, actually,” Mr. Wilson said with a smile. “The big ranches aren’t just in Texas anymore. And please, call me Sam. No reason to stand on formality.”

“No formality? Great.” Tony shot a quick glance at Steve and began loosening his cravat. “I like him already.”

“Informal or not,” Steve blurted as he reached out a hand to stop Tony from undoing his cravat any further, “you’ve still got to stay dressed for the evening.” What was it about Tony that made him uncomfortable wearing clothes for any lengthy stretch of time?

“Doctor Natasha Romanoff,” Jarvis’ dry, even voice announced from near the door. “Of Purfleet Asylum.”

Steve turned to see a very striking woman with flame-red hair and alabaster skin walk unhurriedly into the room. Her eye-catching hair was twisted into an elegant updo at the top of her head, with a few unbound ringlets left to frame her face. She wore a simple black evening gown with an equally black jacket over it, lined with red in such a way as to create a crimson hourglass over her bodice. Her green eyes seemed to take in everything at a glance, and her expression was one of aloof amusement at everything she saw.

Sam’s smile widened. “Now who is she?”

“Crazy doctor,” Tony said quickly. “And by crazy doctor, I mean a doctor for the crazy, not a doctor who is crazy. Though she just might be. Locked up her own husband in the asylum and quite possibly offed another husband on the Continent.”

Sam’s smile faded. “All right then.”

“They call her a black widow.” Tony snagged a glass of wine from a passing waiter and handed it off to Sam, then procured a bottle of sarsaparilla for himself. “Whoever ‘they’ are.”

“Gentlemen.” Dr. Romanoff came over to them, inclining her head slightly in greeting. “Good evening. Mr. Stark and I have spoken a few times about a possible investment in the asylum.” She offered a slight smile. “Though we don’t use the term ‘crazy’. There are hundreds of individual classifications of mental illness. My husband’s is paranoid delusion, for instance.”

Miss Potts raised an eyebrow and looked at Tony, who took a long pull on the sarsaparilla. Steve, for his part, was astonished. This woman must have had the ears of a bat, to have heard Tony’s muttering over the rest of the hubbub of the party.

Luckily they were all spared having to come up with a reply by Jarvis announcing, “Lord James Rhodes.”

“Ah.” Tony’s face lit up. “My Rhodey’s here.”

Steve turned to Tony with a raised eyebrow and was about to respond when he caught sight of the man entering the room. Lord James Rhodes was a tall and broad-shouldered man with very rich brown skin and a pair of large, extremely piercing eyes. He filled out his obviously expensive suit with a surprisingly muscular physique that wouldn’t have been out of place on a soldier.

As Tony detached himself from the group and headed toward ‘his Rhodey’, Miss Potts sidled up next to Steve and put a hand on his arm.

“Formerly Colonel Rhodes,” she murmured into Steve’s ear, “but he was granted a title for services rendered during the Third Anglo-Latverian War about a decade ago.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That was one hell of a war.”

Miss Potts nodded. “Indeed. Hence the title.”

“He looked like a soldier to me.” Steve watched as Tony grasped Lord Rhodes’ hand firmly, then pulled him into an unabashed, back-slapping embrace. “But how does Tony know him? What’s this ‘my Rhodey’ business all about?”

“They were schoolmates at Eton together.” A small smile flitted across Miss Potts’ mouth. “And as for the ‘my Rhodey’ business…” She rolled her eyes. “It’s Tony.”

Tony’s often-outlandish behavior aside, Steve reflected, he never seemed to be short of company. And his evident close friendship with Lord Rhodes simply made Steve that much more aware that the only person he’d ever been that close with had been dead for the better part of half a millennium. 

It would never stop hurting to think of Bucky that way, he realized with a fresh pang.

\---

**Purfleet Asylum - London**  
**even later that evening**

The party hadn’t exactly been Natasha’s idea of a fun evening, but it had been worth it for two reasons: to observe Stark in his natural habitat and to do her best to maneuver him into parting with some grant money. And in both instances, she’d been at least marginally successful. But now it was back to business for the remainder of the night.

“Diary, third June.” 

She spoke into the receiving horn of her phonograph as she poured herself a cupful of reddish liquid from a corked beaker. Into this she measured out three drops of a clear liquid from a tiny phial in her desk drawer, each of which made the cup on her desktop seethe and pour out whitish smoke. She downed the smoking brew in a single gulp, grimacing at the taste, and continued.

“The trouble with Mr. Barton is that I’m unable to pinpoint the cause of his delusions.” Her brow furrowed in concentration. “They began at some point during his time abroad, and so they must have been caused by something he experienced there, but so much of what he says is nonsensical that I have trouble determining whether he’s lucid or raving most of the time.” She sighed. “But his delusions seem much stronger at night, and so I’m off to question him again. Maybe this session will be more fruitful.”

Nurse Temple waited in the hallway near Clint’s room, and though her cap and apron were perfectly starched, her expression was weary.

“He’s been eating bugs again,” she said without preamble. “Only he thinks we don’t notice.”

“Of course he does.” Natasha’s voice was as weary as Nurse Temple’s expression. “Open the door, will you, and wait outside?”

Clint was perched on the end of his bed, which he’d turned on its side to rest on the headboard in order to let him reach the ceiling. He was busily engaged in plucking flies out of the huge spiderweb that filled the corner of his room nearest the window.

“Hi, Clint.” Natasha let out a sigh. “You know you’re not supposed to be doing that.”

Quick as a flash, Clint jumped down from the bed and landed lightly on his feet, though he kept his hands tucked behind his back. 

“Hi, honey. I’m just tending to them.” He glanced up at the ceiling and then back at Natasha. “Don’t want them to be, you know, lonely or anything.”

“Lonely.” She raised an eyebrow. “If you were that concerned about them, you wouldn’t be eating them.”

“I’m not eating them.” He raised his eyebrows. “Did Nurse Temple say I’m eating them? I’m not eating them.”

Natasha sighed again. There was only so much she’d be able to do for Clint if he wasn’t even going to be honest with her. “Let’s talk about the flies, then.” She folded her arms. “When you first started luring them in, you hadn’t started feeding them to the spiders yet. What changed?”

Clint looked at her for a long, suspicious moment, then, “Spiders eat flies.”

“And I can’t help but notice that you’ve been perking up lately every time you hear a bird chirp.” Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. “I suppose that has nothing to do with the fact that birds eat spiders?”

“Birds eat spiders, spiders eat flies.” Clint turned away from her, seemingly preoccupied with whatever was in his hands. “Each one contains life, but the spiders have stronger life than the flies, and the birds have stronger life than the spiders. See?”

“I see.” She looked at him sternly. “I see that you’re going to start catching and eating birds before too long.” She paused, considering what he’d said. “But let’s talk about the strength of their lives. What does that mean for you, practically speaking?”

“Aw, Nat.” Clint turned back to her and spread his hands. They were empty. “What makes you think that means anything for me?”

“The fact that you just ate another bug while your back was turned.” She glared at him. “And the fact that you wouldn’t be doing any of these ridiculous things if you didn’t think they meant anything.”

“The blood is the life,” he whispered.

She paused, a cold feeling gripping her heart. “What did you say?” she replied softly.

He launched himself at her suddenly, hands reaching for her throat. “I need lives!” he screamed. She grabbed him by the wrists and twisted him town to the floor, pinning him down, but he didn’t stop screaming. “I need lives for the Master!”

Nurse Temple and two orderlies burst into the room, a syringe of heavy sedative in the nurse’s hands and a strait-waistcoat in one of the orderly’s. Clint flailed and kicked wildly, but between the four of them, they managed to hold him down and jab the injection home.

“The Master will come,” Clint moaned, the orderlies holding him securely against the floor while the sedative took effect. “The Master will come, and then you’ll see… The blood is the life, Nat… The blood is the life...”

She stood there in the hallway long after the orderlies had wrapped Clint up securely in the strait-waistcoat and deposited him limply on his cot. Long after Nurse Temple had gone along on the rest of her rounds, she still stood there outside Clint’s door, leaning against the wall and wondering how it had all gone so badly wrong. And thinking that if her husband had come to think that eating living things would make him stronger, and that collecting lives for his so-called ‘Master’ was his only purpose, perhaps there was more to his insanity than she’d thought. 

Perhaps his paranoid delusions were neither paranoid nor delusional. And that was a truly terrifying thought.

\---

**Castle Iarnă - Transylvania**  
**5 June 1897**

Sharon stood at the mirror, ignoring the grim look on her own face and instead focusing all her attention on the tight braid she was plaiting into her hair. Since putting her signature on the deeds to the properties the Count had purchased in London, her unease had increased tenfold.

For one thing, she hadn’t managed to sleep during nighttime hours since she’d arrived. The Count seemed to monopolize all her time between sunset and sunrise with his demands for tutoring in etiquette and custom. She hadn’t seen the sun for what must have only been days, but what felt like months. And the fact that the Count never slept at night either hadn’t escaped her notice - in fact, she was beginning to believe that he preferred the nighttime to the daytime.

For another - and far more discomforting - when she’d tried to explore the castle, she found that there were locked doors everywhere. They seemed almost strategically placed to ensure that she stayed in a very small and specific part of the castle. However, not every path was barred by a door; some were barred by crumbled sections of masonry that had either fallen in and sealed off entire hallways or else left gaping holes in the floor that yawned down into pits who knew how deep, and so suicidally wide that no one would dare try to jump across them.

No one except her. 

She’d made up her mind. Protocol and politeness be damned, she wasn’t staying in this horrible place with that unsettling man any longer. She was going to find a way out, now that her job was done, and she’d be back in London with Steve before a fortnight was out.

“Going out for the evening?” a soft voice said behind her.

She started at the sound, so close by her ear, and whirled to see the Count standing at her elbow with a pleasant smile on his face. How on earth had he managed to come into the room without Sharon hearing him? What was more - and this filled her with cold dread - how had she not seen him in the mirror?

“I…” She drew herself up. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No. You wouldn’t have.” Easy smile still in place, he plucked the mirror from the vanity and crushed it in his gloved left hand. Shards of glass fell to the stone floor, and the Count continued talking as if nothing odd had happened at all. “And you don’t need this either. Pretty dame like yourself doesn’t need to paint her face anyway.”

Sharon took a few deep breaths, trying to fight down the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The Count had snuck into her room with perfect silence, he’d cast no reflection in her mirror, and he’d kept smiling that eerie smile even as he’d crushed the mirror easily in his fist - somehow without cutting his hand to ribbons in the process. 

The message was clear to her: he could do anything he liked, and there would be nothing she could do about it.

_We’ll see, you creepy bastard. Just let’s wait and see._

He extended his other hand, and for one terrified moment, Sharon was afraid he was going to request she take it. But all he said was, “The letters I requested?”

“On the desk,” she said stiffly, fighting hard to keep the quaver out of her voice. Damned if she would allow him to see how unnerved he’d made her.

He waited, hand outstretched, his pleasant smile never wavering, and eventually she was forced to go and fetch the letters herself. And when she deposited them in his hand, he tucked them inside his black robe and inclined his head slightly.

The crucifix around her neck must have caught his eye, because he looked up suddenly, a sharp smile spreading over his face. “Did the Roma give you that?”

She fought down the urge to reach up and touch the crucifix, as though it would protect her. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on his and her voice carefully even. “Yes, they did.” She lifted her chin slightly. “They were probably the least strange thing I’ve encountered on this entire journey.”

He cocked his head and considered her for a long moment. “Well, maybe your journey will eventually lead you to a place where that might be useful. I’ll leave you to that, Miss Carter.” He turned to go, but then paused and glanced at her over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way? Should your journey take you around the rest of the castle, be careful not to fall asleep in any of the other rooms, would you? You would find that… unfortunate.”

Sharon was even more disconcerted now. The Count knew how little of the castle she was able to explore, given that he’d been the one to lock the doors. And she had no idea at all why he might imagine she’d spend so much time in any of the other rooms that she’d fall asleep there, but maybe that would work to her advantage. Maybe those other rooms would be unguarded, and maybe she’d be able to escape by using them.

At any rate, she shook her head slightly. “I won’t. You have my word.” 

Two hours later, her careful wanderings through the castle had led her to a promising area. She’d had to carefully pick her way through a few collapsed sections of hallway while holding a candelabra aloft, but she hadn’t encountered a single locked door yet. A few more rooms, and she might just find the outer wall…

“Sharon…” a soft feminine voice drifted through the hallway like a gentle breeze. “Sharon Carter…”

She turned, the flame of the candles flickering as she peered into the gloom. Who else could have been living in this godforsaken place?

“Come hither, my lady.” A deeper, more masculine voice this time, oddly accented. “Come…”

She took a step towards the sound of the voices, drawn by a curiosity that was stronger than her deep unease. If there were others here, others that knew her name, she might be able to find help escaping.

“That’s not very subtle,” a third voice, feminine and tinged with amusement, murmured. “Let me try. Come to us, Sharon… Come rest in our arms…”

The hallway she found herself walking down was carpeted with dust and adorned with cobwebs. Clearly no one had come this way in a very long time, and yet the voices she was hearing were real. Weren’t they?

“Thy path is clear,” said the man’s voice again. “Come, seek thy reward.”

Finally, at the end of the hallway, she found a large and ornate door. The handle turned easily, and she found herself in a huge room dominated by what must have been the largest bed she had ever seen. Half a dozen people could have slept comfortably on it at once, and the sight of it made her realize just how exhausted she was.

That first, soft voice called out gently to her. “Oh yes, I can see how tired you are. Why not rest your head for a moment?”

Her arms and legs suddenly felt leaden, and it was all she could do to set the candelabra down on the floor before collapsing onto the bed. It was as soft as a cloud, and it smelled as though it had been freshly perfumed. And - this was probably a product of her exhausted and overtaxed imagination - she could have worn she felt a delicate hand brush a stray lock of hair off of her forehead.

A slight, pale woman with long, dark hair smiled down at her. “Isn’t that better?” she breathed. “Isn’t that so much better now?”

Before Sharon could reply, another pale skinned, dark haired woman - this one with a bright red mouth and eyes that twinkled behind spectacles - seemed to appear on the other side of her. “So much better, right?”

And then, as if to complete some pattern she wasn’t completely aware of, a tall and very muscular man with ice-blue eyes and long blond hair seemed to appear from out of the bed itself, directly between her thighs. “Verily, a vast improvement.”

Sharon, through her exhaustion, registered that the three of them were clothed in near-transparent shifts of the faintest gossamer silk, faint enough to be sure that they wore nothing beneath. And all she could manage to whisper was “Who are you?”

In reply, the woman with the bright red mouth murmured “Shh,” and pressed her lips to Sharon’s, while the petite woman stroked her hair and whispered, “Don’t worry about such things, Sharon. We’ll take care of you.”

“As though thou wert our own flesh and blood,” whispered the man huskily as he bent his head to her lap and, moving her gown aside with a delicate touch, pressed his lips to her thigh where it was still covered by her drawers.

Sharon found herself suddenly regretting that.

“Oh yes, you are wearing too much, aren’t you?” The petite woman ran a slender finger down the length of Sharon’s neck, stopping at the hem of her sailor collar. “And so business-like. So scholarly.”

“You like that though.” The woman with the red mouth pressed her lips to the side of Sharon’s neck. “Don’t you, Jane?”

“A scholarly woman should certainly know her own,” said the man with a smile, his powerful hands roaming up and down the length of Sharon’s thighs as his lips planted delicate kisses against the thin fabric of her drawers. “And a scholar is our Jane, as well thou dost know, Darcy.”

Sharon heard a low moan escape her mouth. So much was happening all at once, and she found herself fiercely excited by it even as her body languidly refused to cooperate. All she could do was lie there, and perhaps shift slightly if she focused all her effort on doing so. But what she wanted more than anything right then was for the three newcomers to keep right on doing what they had begun to do.

The man suddenly took hold of her gown in both hands and pulled mightily. Buttons popped off in all directions, and the gown came away in useless tatters. “Away with this at once.” Her corset yielded to his hands next, then her shift and her stockings, and finally her drawers. 

And then she was as naked as her three companions, their last gossamer drapings gone.

“Much better.” The woman called Darcy had Sharon’s head in her lap suddenly, and she reached down and threaded her fingers with Sharon’s own. “Oh, look at you now.” She stretched Sharon’s arms over her head, exposing her breasts for the woman called Jane and the yet-unnamed blond god to see. “Just look at her.”

“Mine eyes shall see naught but this sight for ages yet,” came the reply from the blond man as he reached out for her. 

Sharon waited to feel the first touch of his hand on her breasts, her skin seeming to ache like fire for it, but instead he took hold of the crucifix around her neck and snapped the chain with a single powerful yank. And only then, once he had flung it away to some unseen corner of the room, did his hands finally cup her soft, aching curves.

She let out another low moan, her eyes half-closed as she arched her back and pressed herself against the touch of this perfect stranger. Somehow, she found herself even more wickedly excited by that thought in particular - that she did not even know this man’s name, and yet he was touching her so intimately.

“Oh yes.” Jane’s breath was hot against Sharon’s ear and neck, her fingers tight in her hair. “You’re such a wicked woman, aren’t you?”

“So wicked.” Darcy lifted Sharon’s hand to her mouth and planted a line of kisses from her wrist to the soft crook of her elbow. “So wanton.”

The man shifted between Sharon’s thighs, and she felt him hard against her, pressed firmly against her most private of places. And she suddenly did feel very wicked and wanton indeed as she raised her hips to press herself deliciously against him.

“Please,” she heard herself gasp in a most wanton fashion. “Do it.”

That was all the encouragement he needed, as he rocked his hips suddenly against hers and buried himself deep inside her. She cried out, a long and guttural cry of pure ecstasy, and turned her head to press her lips against Jane’s.

“Oh yes,” she moaned into Jane’s soft mouth. “Oh yes…”

“Oh yes,” Jane echoed, shifting so that her lips were against Sharon’s neck, sharp teeth scraping against soft flesh. “Oh yes.” And then - a white hot flash of pain mixed with pleasure and ecstasy and desire, and Jane lapped and suckled at Sharon’s neck, and -

Another sharp pain, on her wrist now, and Darcy smiled a red-lipped smile down at her and then began to-

“The blood is the life,” whispered the man into her ear as he rocked against her, thrusting into her over and over. “A greater immortality than the golden apples of Iðunn.” And she hardly felt the pain this time, when he bent his head to the side of her neck…

The Count burst into the room suddenly, shouting in a language Sharon couldn’t understand, and her companions scattered to the corners of the room. She had a half a second to comprehend their mouths and teeth, smeared red with what she realized was her own blood.

Good God, what had she had done?

The Count threw a sheet at her and then hauled her bodily off the bed and down the hallway - several hallways, she quickly lost track - before practically hurling her into her own bedchamber and slamming the door shut behind them.

“I thought I told you to stay out of the castle, woman,” he seethed, and there was no pleasant smile on his face now. “You gave me your word.”

“You said…” 

Her mind reeled. Everything had happened so fast, and she realized with an explosion of hot shame that Steve had never crossed her mind even once during the whole series of events. Still, the Count’s obvious anger was frightening, especially coupled with his unsettling strength - he’d picked her up off the bed with one hand when she’d been limp deadweight, and there’d been no way for her to resist being dragged down the hallways behind him.

She licked her lips and drew the sheet protectively around herself. “You said only that I shouldn’t go to sleep in any of the rooms. I didn’t think you meant -”

“Look at you.” The Count snorted. “Trying to justify it while your blood drips onto the floor.”

Sharon backed up a few steps, panic beginning to rise in her chest. What could she do, in all honesty, if this man decided to harm her? And yet, she was still a Carter woman, and Carter women didn’t fold so easily.

“Who were they, Count? Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

“What business was it of yours?” He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in taking a turn with them. I thought you’d be more concerned with your beloved fiance.”

The hot shame flooded over her again, and she came very close to wilting beneath it. What would Steve have done if he’d been able to see her? Any decent man would have turned on his heel and walked away from such shocking unfaithfulness without looking back, and she likely deserved it. And yet…

“What business of yours is my fiance?” She lifted her chin stubbornly. “And you haven’t answered my question. You led me to believe you lived here alone. So who were they?”

He looked at her for a long, silent moment, and Sharon was again very aware of how vulnerable she was, standing there in nothing but a thin sheet.

Finally he said, “My companions. They help ease the loneliness of this place.” A dark expression skittered across his face and landed there. “Even if they’re feckless and disloyal.”

“I see.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what else haven’t you told me?”

“Stay out of the rest of the castle, Miss Carter.” He turned to go. “Or don’t, if your life has no value. It’s your choice.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he left the chamber, shutting the door behind him.

Sharon’s further explorations over the next several days had led her deep into the bowels of the castle - to its very foundations, in fact. A set of crumbling stone stairs led down to a cavernous chamber with an earthen floor. And a glance into the chamber had led her to shrink back into the shadows, for she was not alone.

A gang of workmen, Roma peasants from the look of them, had been digging up the packed earth with picks and spades. They were in the midst of shoveling mounds of moldy, greenish dirt into large wooden crates, several of which were piled nearby in a neat pyramid. These had obviously already been filled, as they were nailed shut and lashed with heavy ropes. From the look of things, they had been at this for days already. And they had continued over the next few days as well, during which time there was no sign whatsoever of the Count.

There were, however, signs of his three lust-driven companions. Sharon - not entirely against her will - had found herself drawn back to them again and again. And with the Count gone, there was nothing to interrupt the four of them in their increasingly erotic escapades.

And as she straddled the blonde god’s lap and rode him to a shuddering series of climaxes, and as the other two drank her blood - from her wrists, her throat, even her breasts - she told herself that eventually, she would pull herself together and escape.

Eventually.

\---

**_Captain’s Log - HMS Starlord, 25 June 1897_ **

_We picked up 50 boxes of experimental soil bound for London, England. Set sail at noon into a storm that seemed to appear literally out of nowhere. Seriously. We were swept out to sea immediately._

\---

**_A letter from Sharon Carter to Steve Rogers_ **  
**_dated 4 June 1897 - delivered 25 June 1897_ **

_Dearest Steve,_

_All is well here. I have arrived safely to the home of Count Iarnă. He has requested that I remain here with him for a month to teach him English custom and etiquette before his expatriation. I can say no more except that I love you and long to be reunited._

_With all my love,_  
_Sharon_


	3. Now the Floor of Heaven's Lain

**Stark Estate - London**  
**25 June 1897**

Steve sat there in the garden, Sharon’s letter in his hands, reading and rereading it and hoping with each reading that it would make more sense than it had the previous time.

A month. 

He shook his head numbly. Sharon would be staying in Transylvania for a month. Which meant he wouldn’t see her again for at least a month and a half, probably more like two. They’d never been apart for more than a day at a time since they’d begun courting, and he already missed her terribly. How was he going to handle such a lengthy separation?

But even worse was the perfunctory nature of the letter. It didn’t sound like Sharon at all - it was as cold and unfeeling as one of the legal documents she might have drafted, and so brief that it left him wondering whether everything was all right with her. 

Whether everything would be all right with them.

“Hey, Knight in Frozen Armor, there you are.” 

Tony wandered into the garden just then, as half-dressed as always and bottle of sarsaparilla in one hand. He looked at Steve critically for a moment and added, “Though Knight in Moping Armor would probably suit you better right now.”

“I got a letter from Sharon.” Steve held it out, looking up at Tony with what probably was a very mopey expression. “She’s going to be in Transylvania for a month.” He shook his head. “A month. I can’t believe it.”

Tony took the letter, looked at it for a moment, and handed it back. “Like I said, Romanian holiday. Maybe she’ll come back with a strapping young lad from the Continent.”

Steve must have looked very miserable indeed at this suggestion, because Tony held up a hand and said, “Hey, I’m joking. Mostly. I mean, if she comes back with a strapping young lad from the Continent, I’m sure she’d be entirely amenable to sharing.”

Steve gave him a sour look, then shook his head. “I’m just worried, is all. This letter doesn’t sound like her. I can’t help but think this is her way of breaking things off without really breaking them off, you know?”

“No.” Tony took a swig of sarsaparilla. “I don’t know. From what I’ve seen, Miss Carter would have no problem at all telling you exactly where to go. Wasn’t that part of the appeal for you?”

“Yeah.” Steve sighed heavily and folded the letter, putting it away in his pocket and resting his hands on his knees. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He looked up at Tony and found a smile somewhere. “So what brings you outside before one in the afternoon?”

“I’m marrying Rhodey. And Miss Potts.” Another swig of his drink. “I’ve decided. I’m marrying both of them. I’ve also decided I’m taking a walk. Right now.” 

Without waiting to see if Steve would follow, Tony turned and headed into the hedge maze.

“How?” Steve raised an eyebrow at the back of Tony’s head and gave him a look that perfectly encapsulated his entire experience with him - disbelief, exasperation, and grudging interest - before getting to his feet and following him into the maze. “Is that even legal?”

“Sure,” Tony said quickly. “Probably. Somewhere.” He shrugged and rounded a corner in the maze. “I’m sure it’s legal somewhere, and anyway, I’ll worry about all those details later. The important part is that I’m marrying the both of them.” 

“Okay.” Steve’s eyebrow didn’t come down so much as a quarter inch. “And when did you decide this? More importantly, what do the two of them have to say about it?”

“Oh, you know.” He rolled his eyes and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the manor, though it was hard to tell over the rows of neatly trimmed hedges. “Something about responsibility and seriousness and blah blah blah, I stopped listening around then, to be perfectly honest.”

“I thought so.” Steve sighed and shook his head, staying only a couple of steps behind Tony. It would be easy to lose his way in the maze. “So you haven’t come any closer to an actual marriage, is what you’re saying.”

“Uh, no, Captain Confusion.” Tony looked at him. “I thought I made my position perfectly clear. You’re just too deep in your own moping to understand me. Or maybe it’s a senior thing?” He nodded. “It’s most definitely a senior thing. Mental capacity diminishes with age, less ability to take in new knowledge, that kind of thing.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Tony, you made your position perfectly clear.” He folded his arms. “Except you also just got through telling me that their answer to your proposal was to tell you to grow up, in as many words. So, no. You’re no closer to actually getting married.”

A sudden spatter of raindrops made them both flinch, and in less time than it took to complete a thought, the downpour began.

Tony spread his arms and looked upward. “See that? I didn’t do that.” Before long, his white shirt was soaked all the way through. “The sky is angry at you.”

Steve’s clothing was drenched every bit as quickly as Tony’s, though a lot less of him could be seen because of it. Tony’s penchant for wearing as little as possible had left him with a transparent shirt - and an entirely visible upper body.

“Are you seriously telling me it’s my fault it’s raining?” Steve held his hands up over his head - completely ineffectively - and laughed at the absurdity of the whole situation. “When I’m getting just as wet as you are?”

“You are not. Not when you’re wearing this, and this, and even this.” Tony poked him in the waistcoat, jacket, and tie respectively. “You’re awful dressed for someone who planned to spend the whole day moping in the garden. I’ll bet you’re even wearing a pocket watch.” He aimed a finger at Steve’s hip. “Are you wearing a pocket watch?”

“Of course I am.” Steve poked a finger back at Tony’s stomach, where his waistcoat-pocket would have been. “Just like I can tell you’re not wearing one.” He grinned. “Or much of anything else, for that matter. How does Miss Potts let you out of the house?”

“I sneak out, obviously.” Tony turned his head slightly, as if expecting Miss Potts to appear at the far end of the maze right then and there. “She’s probably looking for me right now.”

“Well, let’s not let her find you.” Steve smiled again and poked Tony right in the chest. “Or else your dreams of marrying her are going to go right out the window.”

Tony caught Steve’s finger and didn’t let go. “Are you flirting with me? I think you’re flirting with me.” A grin flitted across his mouth. “It sounds like you’re flirting with me.”

“I’m not flirting with you,” Steve replied in what was a far huskier voice than he’d intended. He flashed a smile back at Tony and ran a finger along his braces. “You just see flirting everywhere you look.”

“Well, I’m only looking here,” Tony murmured, entwining his fingers with Steve’s and pulling him just a little bit closer. “Nowhere else to look.”

And suddenly, Steve’s lips were against Tony’s, the sarsaparilla bottle falling to the carefully-manicured grass with an almost inaudible thud. Steve’s fingers curled around Tony’s braces, seizing them tightly and pulling the both of them together as they kissed fiercely.

The rain continued to fall in fat, spattering drops, and Tony’s fingers strayed underneath Steve’s jacket and then his waistcoat. Steve’s fingers, meanwhile, left Tony’s braces to trace along the clearly defined lines of his body through his thin, soaked shirt.

He didn’t say a word. What needed to be said, after all, at a time like this?

\---

**_Captain’s Log - HMS Starlord, 3 July 1897_ **

_Second mate is missing. Presumed dead. Rest in Peace, Drax, old friend. Storm has continued without stopping for days. Crew uneasy - something or someone is aboard this ship with us. Something is attacking the crew. If there is a god, may he have mercy on our damnable souls._

\---

**Purfleet Asylum - London**  
**4 July 1897**

“Mr. Barton’s case is becoming more… interesting.”

Natasha spoke into the phonograph, her fingertips steepled underneath her chin as she sat at her desk. Outside her window, a full moon glared occasionally through holes in the thick clouds that poured rain down in great slashing sheets, along with intermittent rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning. Outside her office, the halls of the asylum swarmed with activity as the orderlies attempted to quiet the inmates - the loudest of whom was her husband. 

Despite the pouring rain and the dull roar of thunder, she could hear him.

“Master!” he screamed. “I know you’re coming! I can sense your presence! Let me serve you, Master! Let me serve you!”

She settled back in her chair and sighed heavily. 

“He’s become obsessed with his ‘Master’. The flies and spiders, the fascination with consuming the life force of other creatures, the promise of immortality.” She felt her voice catch in her throat. “‘The blood is the life’, he said. Where did he hear that? Who did he hear it from? And…”

She trailed off and put her head in her hands. She knew all too well what Clint’s ‘Master’ must have been. The only question was, how had Clint managed to catch a glimpse of the truth? And, more importantly, what would happen to him if he ever managed to learn the whole truth?

What would happen to _them_?

\---

**Stark Estate - London**  
**later that evening**

Even ten days later - and on his birthday, no less - Steve’s mind kept drifting back to what had happened out in the hedge maze. And he couldn’t entirely decide how he felt about the whole thing. 

On the one hand, it had been thrilling and exciting. A spur-of-the-moment descent into simple sensory pleasure in the midst of a freak downpour. A chance to surrender - even for a few moments - to pure self-interest, and to let everything else go. But on the other hand, there was Sharon. And he felt a twinge of guilt about taking his pleasure with someone other than his fiancée, even if it wouldn’t be repeated.

The rain on his windowpanes didn’t help matters either, as it was not only too loud to let him drift off to sleep, but also kept calling his mind back to the rain that had sparked matters to begin with. 

After what felt like hours of trying fruitlessly to fall asleep, Steve shoved back the covers and went down the hall to Tony’s room. If he couldn’t sleep, then he might as well sit down and talk to Tony seriously about what they’d done and what it meant.

Except when he got to Tony’s room, the bed was empty. The French doors were flung wide open, rattling in the wind, and Tony himself was walking slowly down the stairs into the garden, heedless of the rain, his long red robe flapping like a loose sail in the storm.

“Tony?” Steve shivered and raised his voice. “Tony, come back!”

But Tony didn’t come back or even acknowledge Steve. He drifted down the stairway, feet bare against the wet stone steps, and disappeared into the towering hedge maze. 

Sleepwalking, Steve realized - Tony must have been sleepwalking. Which was not only odd - to the best of Steve’s knowledge, Tony had never been a sleepwalker - but also dangerous. Sleepwalking outside in a thunderstorm could get him killed.

“Tony!” Steve had no robe to throw over his thin blue pajamas, but he headed out into the storm anyway, squinting against the rain. He’d have to hurry to find Tony before he got too deep into the hedge maze. “Tony! Stop!”

He ran around the maze for what felt like several harrowing hours, but was likely only a few minutes. The rain came down in heavy sheets, drenching and blinding him all at once, and he wished he had thought to wear more than thin bedroom slippers.

“Tony!” His voice seemed to be getting lost in the sounds of the storm, no matter how loudly he shouted. “ _Tony!_ ”

He rounded a corner and gasped.

Tony lay on his back on one of the wide marble benches that had been placed here and there throughout the maze, his eyes closed and a look of deep ecstasy on his face. And writhing atop his supine body, between his spread thighs, was a large and well-muscled man with dark shoulder-length hair, clad from head to foot in black leather. He pumped his sizable cock in and out of Tony’s ass while Tony reached up to clutch at the man’s back and wrap his legs around his waist. 

Tony’s moans and gasps of gratification were clear and obvious even above the noise of the storm. And the man’s grunts of pleasurable effort were unmistakable.

Steve froze in shock and disbelief, wondering for a moment if he were dreaming. And then the lightning flashed again, and Steve saw a grotesque grill-like mask encasing the man’s face. 

The black-clad figure continued to thrust himself into Tony, his hands clenched under Tony’s ass, practically lifting Tony bodily off the bench. And the noises Tony made only grew louder, more desperate. His red silk robe - now drenched - fell open, revealing his naked body and his own rock-hard erection.

As Steve watched, his own erection beginning to stir in his pants, Tony reached up and stripped the man’s mask away, dropping it carelessly to the ground. The man immediately bent his head, bringing his face to Tony’s neck, and Tony let out a loud cry that could just as easily have been from pain as from pleasure.

Steve couldn’t tell if it were erotic or horrifying.

And then the man lifted his head, turning it towards Steve as a flash of lightning illuminated him perfectly. Blood was dripping steadily down the man’s face from his mouth, and Tony’s throat had smears of blood on it as well. But Steve felt his heart give a single hammering beat and then stand absolutely still in his chest.

The man’s face was one he would have known anywhere, even if it couldn’t have possibly been true.

“Bucky?” he whispered.

The man stilled. “Who the hell is…” He shook his head. “No. No!” His ice blue eyes pierced Steve’s. “Don’t see me.”

Lightning streaked across the sky, flooding the garden in a blinding flash of light.

Tony lay flat on his back on a wide marble bench, his legs dangling off either side, and his red silk robe clinging wetly to his naked body. He had a dazed expression on his face, as if he had no idea where he was at all.

Had it been a dream?

Steve shook his head to clear his senses. There was no sign of anyone else having been there at all. And Tony certainly wasn’t showing any of the wild, abandoned lust he’d been immersed in a moment ago.

It must have been a dream, Steve told himself as he rushed forward to cover Tony up with his trailing robe and hoist him up into a sitting position. 

“Are you all right?” It seemed such a ridiculous question to ask, but it came out anyway.

But Tony just seemed confused and disoriented, barely aware that Steve was in front of him at all. “Just called out to me…” he murmured. “Called out to me, and I had to follow… I had to…”

“Who?” 

Steve knelt down in front of his friend and put both hands firmly on his shoulders, as if to ground him in reality. Because if Tony began describing the man Steve had seen - had _imagined_ he’d seen - then he didn’t know what he’d do. 

“Who called you, Tony?”

“Could hear a voice…” Tony stared past him, though his eyes were unfocused. “Had no control… Had to follow…”

“You were walking in your sleep.” Steve shook his head with decisive finality, his grip on Tony’s shoulders tightening. 

“Can taste his blood in my mouth…” Tony finally seemed to realize Steve was there and he looked at him, his eyes slowly refocusing. “And he felt so good… So good…”

Steve didn’t want to hear the rest. Better to ignore what he’d imagined and just let it have been a dream. “Come on, Tony, we’ve got to get you inside out of this rain.”

And he heard himself saying the same thing over and over as he got a shoulder under Tony and began helping him back to the house, though he wasn’t sure whether he was trying to reassure Tony or himself.

“It was a dream, Tony, that’s all. It was only a dream.”

Tony frowned. “Dammit.”

\---

**THE DAILY TELEGRAPH - 5 JULY 1897 - STRANGEST STORM ON RECORD**  
_“... the storm lasted for several days, causing untold property damage and confusion in the transatlantic shipping lanes.”_

**THE SUN - 6 JULY 1897 - LONDON PROPERTIES HEATING UP AMONGST FOREIGN BUYERS**  
_“... which have led to record-breaking real estate sales this summer, as foreign clients take advantage of the market’s favorable currency exchanges.”_

**THE DAILY MAIL - 7 JULY 1897 - MYSTERY DERELICT FOUND AT SEA**  
_“... entire crew vanished without a trace. They’re most definitely dead, and may God have mercy on their weary souls! The Captain’s Log was found, stained with what was most definitely his blood! Or… was it the blood of someone else…?”_

**THE OBSERVER - 8 JULY 1897 - CAPTAIN’S LOG SHOWS EVIDENCE OF TRAGEDY**  
_“... have acquired the Captain’s Log, the last entry being hasty and jumbled. It reads ‘Rocket jumped overboard after Groot went missing. I’m the only one left now, and I saw IT myself just a few minutes ago. I’m going to die, I know it, but I’ll get the ship as close to home as I can before IT gets me too. Drax, Groot, Rocket, Gamora… I’ll see you soon.’_

_What must have happened to these poor souls we can only guess, but the shipping company has issued a statement of indemnity, claiming no responsibility for any of the…”_

\---

**the busy streets of London**  
**8 July 1897**

Steve had looked right at him and called him ‘Bucky.’

Bucky.

Count Iarnă hadn’t heard that name in centuries. That name had died - along with his humanity - in the Hydra cult’s dungeons so long ago. They had tortured that name out of him, along with everything that had made him Bucky - Steve’s Bucky - and in repayment, he had slaughtered them all and drunk their blood.

And yet, fate had intervened somehow and brought Steve back to him not once, but twice. The first time in the presence of that Carter dame, and the second in the garden of Stark Estate.

Tony Stark - he had chosen him because it was obvious that the man both loved and wanted badly to be loved. He was perfect for the plan.

But in the meantime…

He thought he had shown great patience in not coming for Steve immediately after he had finished with Stark, but it had been a long damn three days, and he was tired of doing nothing but watching and waiting. And so he had been driven out during the day (because contrary to Roma lore, his kind could walk around in daylight if they were old enough and not stupid about it, thank you very much), into the very busy streets of London.

Steve was currently taking his time browsing through sketchpads in a stationery shop, and he seemed to take forever to choose something and pay for it.

He felt something strange flutter in his stomach as he murmured, “See me now.”

And sure enough, Steve happened to glance up and look out the front window of the shop. 

Their eyes met.

The effect was instantaneous: Steve’s face went slack and a look of disbelieving amazement came into his eyes. The shopkeeper had to hold out his handful of change to Steve no less than three times before Steve finally noticed, and after he’d hurriedly pocketed it and dashed out the door, the two of them stood face to face for the first time in four centuries.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice sounded terribly hopeful. “Holy God, Bucky, it’s you.”

Something like a smile flitted across the Count’s face. “I haven’t been called that name in a long time,” he said softly. “A very long time.”

“But it really is you,” Steve said, almost as if he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t asleep and dreaming. He cautiously reached out a hand. “How did you get here? Where have you been?” He threw caution to the wind then, and seized both of Bucky’s hands in his own. “God, Bucky, I thought you were dead!”

The Count (or Bucky? Could he be Bucky again, at least for Steve?) didn’t know how to begin answering those questions, but he did suddenly wish that he wasn’t wearing gloves. At least on one hand.

He wanted to run his fingers over Steve’s hands and his face and anything else that he would be allowed to touch. Anything would do.

“Well,” he murmured. “Here I am.”

“But how?” Steve’s brow furrowed and his face screwed itself up into a knot of overwhelmed and very emotional confusion. “How’s that possible? The battle… I saw you fall.” A shadow passed over his face. “I saw you with my own eyes. We couldn’t find your body when we went down to look, but…” He trailed off. Shook his head.

Bucky (he could be Bucky for a while, certainly for Steve) just barely refrained from running his fingers over Steve’s check. “It’s a pretty long story. Do you really want me to tell it while we stand in the street?”

Steve let out an absurd little laugh - the kind born of high emotions rather than genuine humor - and shook his head. “Something tells me it’s the kind of story that needs to be told over a stiff drink. Or at least a cup of tea.”

“Whatever you like, Stevie.” He gave in and trailed gloved fingertips over Steve’s cheek, and thrilled a little when Steve leaned into his touch and smiled. “Whatever you like.”

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/149453653@N06/35209052006/in/dateposted-public/)

\---

**Stark Estate - London**  
**meanwhile**

Miss Potts had put in a call to Natasha at the asylum not too long ago, a call that sounded urgent enough for Natasha to push back her standard midday schedule and make the drive out to the Estate. 

From what Miss Potts had said, there was something very wrong with Stark’s behavior. And given the man’s usual behavior - and Miss Potts’ experience with it - something must have been very wrong indeed.

“So.” She handed her coat and hat to the footman who’d answered the door and spoken directly to Miss Potts herself, who was standing anxiously nearby. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“He’s so relaxed. Mellow. Lethargic, even.” Miss Potts frowned. “In other words, he’s not even vaguely himself.”

“I...see.” 

Natasha’s brow furrowed. She might have jumped to the conclusion that Stark had simply had a very long, debaucherous, and thoroughly intoxicated few evenings and was feeling the aftereffects of his overindulgence. But Miss Potts was clearly used to such things, and if she’d felt the need to call Natasha in, Stark’s lethargy was probably not attributable to his nightlife. 

“How long has he been this way?”

“Since the sleepwalking incident a few days ago.” Miss Potts’ frown deepened. “And he never sleepwalks.”

The furrows in Natasha’s brow deepened. This was the first she’d heard of any such incident, and to hear it mentioned along with some kind of pervasive lethargy of Stark’s was concerning. Perhaps he’d contracted some sort of illness. Or perhaps his excessive lifestyle had indeed caught up with him in the form of renal failure or hepatitis. 

“I think I’d better have a look at him,” she said, hefting her doctor’s bag.

She found him in the solarium, sprawled languidly on a wicker chaise lounge, clad in a silk robe and striped pajama trousers. A bottle of sarsaparilla dangled from his fingers.

He just barely looked up when Natasha walked in. “Well, if it isn’t the lady doctor. Hi there, lady doctor. Are you here to marry me, too? Because I’ll have you know, I’m twice spoken for.”

Natasha almost didn’t register the words themselves. Not because she wanted to deflect their insinuation - though she certainly didn’t want anything at all to do with that sort of involvement with Stark - but because of the quality of his voice. It had come out sounding weak and strained, as though it had taken a great effort to speak those few words. And, more importantly, because what she heard in his voice was reflected in his appearance.

Her first thought - her automatic physician’s instinct - was _anemia._ As severe a case of it as she’d ever seen, in fact. Stark’s skin was pale, sallow, almost washed clean of all its vital coloring. He’d turned a pale and dusty yellowish color, the paleness made even more apparent - even _starker_ , ha ha - by the pronounced dark circles under his eyes. He looked as though he was lying on the chaise because he lacked the strength to stand up under his own motive power, and Natasha supposed this was not very far from the truth.

“I’m here to help you.” 

She knelt down beside the chaise and felt for a pulse at his wrist. What she felt was extremely disturbing - his heart rate had increased enormously, until his pulse seemed as fast as the beating of a small bird’s wings. 

“What have you been getting up to?”

“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the gardens. “Having carnal relations in the hedge maze. Which Steve said was only a dream.” He frowned. “Didn’t really feel like a dream, but that’s what he said.”

She cocked an eyebrow up at him, still hanging onto his wrist and trying to gauge the rate at which his pulse might be changing. If it didn’t slow down soon, he was going to need to be sung a morphine lullaby. And given how anemic he was looking, she’d have to be extremely careful with the dosage.

“Listen to me, Mr. Stark.” She held his gaze unblinkingly and unsmilingly. “You’re not a well man, and given how quickly this seems to have happened, I need you to treat the matter seriously.”

“I don’t remember what he looked like, but he had blue eyes.” Another frowned skittered across Stark’s face and settled there. “Ice blue eyes.”

From somewhere in Natasha’s memory, a small but insistent bell began to chime in warning. 

There were too many coincidences piling up lately for her to ignore, and on a sudden impulse she reached out and tugged Stark’s collar away from his neck. Two puncture wounds, small and unhealed, rimmed with white and looking somewhat raw, were visible in the hollow of the right side of his throat.

She knelt there, frozen, her eyes riveted to the marks, realization and understanding ripping through her mind and leaving cold trails in their wake. It made sense now, all of it. Terrible sense.

Stark must have caught the look on her face. “Am I dying? I’m dying, aren’t I? You should tell me if I’m dying.” He craned his neck toward the doorway, then glanced back at her. “Don’t tell Miss Potts though. Let me figure out how to tell her that I’m dying, all right?”

“Lie still, Tony.” She lifted the sarsaparilla bottle away from him, setting it down on the nearby low table, and reached into her doctor’s bag without looking. Administering sedatives formed such a large portion of her daily routine that she was able to find the implements in her bag by touch and muscle memory alone. “You’re not dying.”

As she assembled the syringe, she wondered whether she was doing Stark a favor by lying to him. She wondered if she were even lying. But there was nothing whatsoever to be gained by absolute candidness; if anything, telling him what she knew would drive him every bit as insane as poor Clint. 

Was he dying? She supposed it was a matter of perspective. 

And time.

“Hold still.” 

She slid the needle into his arm and depressed the plunger, watching for signs of the drug’s onset. It didn’t take long; he was asleep a moment later. And once she’d felt his pulse subside to a normal rhythm, she reached into her bag again, this time for a scrap of paper and a pencil.

She hurriedly scribbled a message, summoned a servant girl, and told her to go to the nearest telegraph office and send it immediately. And almost as soon as the door had closed behind the girl, certainly before she’d had time to get her own thoughts and apprehensions in order, the door banged open again.

“No, plural marriage isn’t really a thing in the States either,” the cowboy Sam Wilson was saying to Lord Rhodes. “Except out in Utah, and I’m not sure that’s strictly legal.”

“Which is exactly what I tried to tell Tony.” Rhodes rolled his eyes and shook his head, exasperation and amusement vying for room on his face. Until he caught sight of Stark, anyway. Then his expression turned grave. “What’s the matter with him? He looks terrible.”

“Severe anemia at the very least,” Natasha replied, “but I don’t think that’s all.” She took a deep breath, got to her feet, and sighed. “I’ve just sent a cable to a colleague of mine. He and I worked together on a similar case some time ago, and he’s far more expert in dealing with these sorts of things than I am. I’ve asked him to come here to help us.”

“Well, where on the Continent is he?” Rhodes put a hand on Stark’s forehead and winced. “Get him here, whatever it takes.”

“Dr. T’Challa is in Wakanda.” Natasha looked from the heavily-sedated Stark to the worried Lord Rhodes to the staggered Wilson and back again. “But he’ll be here within three days. They have a few interesting modes of transport there.”

\---

**Hill and Coulson’s Fabulous Cinematograph**  
**meanwhile**

They walked for a block or two and then ducked into an ornate building fronted with fantastical posters and glowing lights. The large sign over the entrance pronounced it to be Hill and Coulson’s Fabulous Cinematograph, though the inside wasn’t nearly as decorative as the outside. 

In fact, once they got past the foyer, the inside was a dark room of hard benches, a series of flickering images playing on one wall.

That suited Bucky just fine. While the rest of the patrons were consumed by the moving pictures - horses galloping, trains chugging along, and even women undressing - he could fully turn his attention to Steve.

“It’s been so long,” he murmured into his ear. “I never let myself dream I would see you again.”

“I didn’t think it was possible,” Steve said in a low voice soaked through with emotion, his fingers entwining with Bucky’s. “How is it? Possible, I mean. How are you here?”

Bucky couldn’t help it; he tugged off his right glove with his teeth and then trailed his bare fingers down Steve’s cheek. Even fingertips just barely touching skin was more than he thought he would ever have again.

“I’ve crossed oceans of time to find you,” he breathed, running his thumb over Steve’s lips. “And now, here I am.”

Steve’s eyelids drifted down to hood his eyes. His lips parted just barely, and his breath was warm and moist against the pad of Bucky’s thumb. “I’d never have believed it,” he whispered. “Not if I hadn’t seen you with my own eyes. But how?”

Bucky smiled. “What, the first answer wasn’t enough for you?”

He wanted very badly to have Steve right then and there. To feel every part of him, to touch him with his mouth and his hands, to feel their naked bodies pressed together for the first time in so long. He wanted to drink him in, to taste him, and have Steve taste him in return.

But he had to be patient.

He had waited over four hundred years. He could wait a little bit longer.

“I just can’t get my head around it.” Steve looked up at him with such adoration in his eyes that it was impossible not to smile like a sap in return. “It really is you. After so long, and you’re here with me, and I don’t even know where to start. I just…” He trailed off, shook his head, then leaned it against Bucky’s shoulder and said with an audible smile in his voice, “I missed you so much.”

Bucky couldn’t help it. Nobody was paying attention anyway. Propriety be damned.

He lifted Steve’s chin with the tips of his fingers, smiled, and then leaned down and kissed him on his perfect lips.

Steve froze for the briefest instant, then melted into the kiss wholeheartedly. His hands came up to ghost their fingertips lightly against the sides of Bucky’s face, and his lips pressed almost desperately back against Bucky’s. The tip of his tongue quested boldly between Bucky’s lips, and met the tip of Bucky’s before too long.

Bucky wanted him.

Wanted to taste him so very badly.

“Steve,” he breathed once they reluctantly separated. His jaw ached with desire and need. He licked his lips and stilled himself for a moment. “Stevie.”

“Let’s go somewhere.” Steve’s eyes seemed to glimmer brightly, and his voice had taken on a sort of breathless quality. “Somewhere private.” He laughed softly, and a bit unsteadily. “And close.”

Bucky just barely stifled a moan. He leaned his forehead against Steve’s and looked into his eyes, lips curling into a smile. “I have a house. It has some old furnishing in it, but I can’t guarantee it’s any good.”

“So,” Steve whispered breathily, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s. “Let’s find out.”


	4. With the Brightest Stars of Gold

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/149453653@N06/35209051266/in/dateposted-public/)

**Carfax Abbey - London**  
**a short while later**

The furniture in the ancient house was indeed very old. And, truth be told, it wasn’t much good at all. The chairs were rickety and blew out puffs of dust when sat in, the tables looked as though they hadn’t been used or even looked at in decades, and the bed was, to put it mildly, uncomfortable. But it didn’t matter in the slightest. Nothing mattered in the slightest except what they were doing.

The cab ride to the house had been a whirl of excitement and emotion that had left Steve feeling dizzy with anticipation. And once the huge creaking doors had closed behind them and they were in the massive old place alone, it had been like a dream unfolding.

He and Bucky wrapped themselves around each other and stumbled their way through the old house, going from room to room and leaving a trail of discarded bits of clothing behind them all the way - a jacket in the hall, a waistcoat draped over the back of an armchair, a shirt and a pair of braces on the stairs. 

Steve even abandoned his tie in the kitchen, where he’d picked up a dusty bottle of oil from an equally dusty shelf with the wicked and delightfully shiver-inducing thought that they’d need it very shortly. 

He got something of a nasty surprise when he peeled off Bucky’s shirt, however. 

He actually gasped out loud when Bucky’s left shirtsleeve slid down to reveal that his entire arm was covered in what looked like a close-fitting vambrace. And his surprise turned to horror-tinged shock when he realized that it wasn’t armor - it was Bucky’s arm. 

Bucky’s natural arm had been replaced by an arm of dully gleaming silver metal, and the point at which it met his shoulder was a maze of thick, ropy scar tissue.

“Bucky,” he breathed, touching the metal tentatively and looking up into Bucky’s face, eyes full of questions. “What happened to you?”

“Hydra happened to me,” Bucky said shortly, right hand tightening around Steve’s waist. “That was only the beginning of what they did.”

“Oh, Bucky.” Steve’s face softened into an expression of pained sympathy. “What did they do to you?”

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.” Bucky kissed him suddenly, his hand going to the back of Steve’s head, his lips pressed bruisingly against Steve’s own. When he pulled away, he was panting. “But not right now. Right now, I just want you.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Steve heard himself replying through a slightly dazed smile and a mind full of sunlight. “God, that’s good enough for me forever.”

Falling into bed with Bucky for the first time in better than four centuries was like the most wonderful dream he’d ever had. What did it matter if the feather mattress was lumpy, or that everything was covered in a layer of dust, when the two of them were finally together? What did it matter if the sheets were threadbare, when he could slide naked between them with Bucky? And what did it matter what might have happened to Bucky in the past, when he was alive and well and right there for Steve to touch?

Steve’s hands slid over Bucky’s upper body, finding familiar territory on Bucky’s chest and stomach, encountering strange new ground at Bucky’s left shoulder where firm flesh gave way to hard, knotted scar tissue and even harder metal. 

His lips fastened themselves to Bucky’s neck, to his shoulder, to his chest, to anywhere he could reach. And he couldn’t keep his mind - or his impatient hands - from drifting down between Bucky’s thighs to the throbbing hardness there.

Bucky’s moans of pleasure only encouraged him to keep going.

It had been two years since he’d come out of the ice. More than four centuries since he and Bucky had last been together. Every day had felt like a year since he’d reached out helplessly as Bucky had fallen backwards from the tallest tower of the castle, out into thin air to what everyone had believed was his death. 

And yet, all that time and all that pain had simply vanished. It felt as though they were back before anything had gone wrong, before they’d been cruelly torn apart. Back when the most important things in the world had been their cause and their love.

His fingers traced up and down the length of Bucky’s erection, his thumb gliding over the tip, and then wrapped around the thick shaft. 

“Oh, Steve.” Bucky threaded his fingers into Steve’s hair, but his eyes were closed. “Oh, Stevie, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much.”

Steve didn’t respond; he didn’t have to. His hand pumped slowly up and down Bucky’s length, feeling the soft skin shift and slide over the underlying hardness. Bucky seemed to swell in his hand, veins thickening beneath the touch of his fingers, and suddenly there was wonderful texture against his hand.

He quickened his pace slightly, hardly noticing that his own breathing and heart rate had quickened as well.

Bucky let out a single huff of breathless laughter. “You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” His fingers tightened in Steve’s hair and he let his head loll back onto the mattress. 

They had no pillows, but it didn’t matter.

“Lot of lost time to make up for,” Steve breathed, his hand giving Bucky’s shaft a light squeeze that drew a sharp gasp from Bucky. “Don’t you agree?”

“Right now,” Bucky panted, “I’d agree to anything, Stevie.”

“Anything?” Steve smiled mischievously and raised an eyebrow. He dipped his head to Bucky’s lap and gave the tip of Bucky’s cock a gentle lick, dragging a very encouraging moan out of him.

He could feel himself stiffening as well, his pants in a heap on the floor outside the bedroom, and his mind running away with itself. “Anything, really?”

Bucky looked at him, blue eyes wide and needy. “Anything.”

Steve’s mouth engulfed Bucky’s cock, his lips and tongue working at it, suckling at it, milking it until Bucky’s fingers dug into Steve’s scalp as he moaned with wanton, desperate pleasure.

And it still wasn’t enough. Maybe Steve was in a hurry, as Bucky had suggested. Or maybe he just wanted it to feel real.

“I want you, Bucky.” He pulled his head back, gasping openmouthed for breath. “I want-”

Bucky came with a cry right then and there, spilling endlessly into Steve’s grasping hand. 

Steve grinned enormously, inordinately pleased with himself, and gave a last long, almost agonizing stroke that drew the last drops out, fingers slippery with Bucky’s jism.

“Already?” Steve couldn’t help but keep smiling. He didn’t take his hand off of Bucky’s shaft. “Wow.”

“It’s been a long time.” Bucky sat up on his elbows and smiled. “And I’ve missed you. And you weren’t taking your time anyway.”

“No.” Steve laughed breathily. “No, I guess I wasn’t. Didn’t seem to be much point, did it?”

It hardly surprised him to discover that Bucky’s cock didn’t soften much at all. In fact, from Steve’s continued ministrations, it was hard again in a minute’s time. And Steve wasn’t planning to take things any slower this time around, either. 

Mischievous smile still firmly in place, Steve reached for the bottle of oil.

“After all,” he said, his own erection throbbing as he rubbed a generous helping of oil over it, “we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Bucky shifted to his knees and wrapped his fingers around Steve’s slickened cock. “Well, we’ll just have to spend eternity making up for it.” He smiled as Steve groaned under his steady ministrations. “Won’t we?”

For a long moment, Steve simply let himself enjoy Bucky’s touch, eyes rolling upward and hardness throbbing and aching between his thighs. But he didn’t want things to end _too_ soon.

He shifted slightly and poured another generous dollop of oil into the palm of his hand. “Lie back,” he whispered.

Bucky flashed him a grin and did as he was told. Though he did add, “And here I just got up. And got you up even harder.”

Steve’s response didn’t require any words. 

All he needed to do was reach forward and cup his hand under Bucky’s ass, between his buttocks, and begin slowly and firmly massaging his handful of oil against the tight, puckered ring of muscle he found there. His eyes never left Bucky’s, and his smile took on a very hungry quality.

He pressed harder against Bucky’s ass, worked at it with the flat of his hand, rubbing the oil into Bucky’s skin until it was soaked, saturated with it. And then he began working at it with his fingertips, pressing insistently against the tight knot of muscle until he felt it relax. 

Enough to admit a fingertip, and before long, several fingers that he moved back and forth tantalizingly inside of Bucky. His other hand was wrapped firmly around Bucky’s cock, pumping it with agonizing slowness.

It didn’t take long at all to have Bucky writhing and moaning beneath him.

“It’s been so long, Stevie. So long.” His face was a mixture of need and desperation. “And I want you so badly.”

“I want you too, Buck.” Steve’s voice had taken on that breathy, otherworldly quality again, as though he were in a dream. 

He shifted onto his knees, continuing to probe with his fingers for another moment, then withdrawing them and bringing the tip of his cock to the spot his fingers had just left. 

“Oh yes,” Bucky whispered. “Yes…”

Steve smiled down at him and pushed forward, the head of his cock sliding inside of Bucky. He let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-breathy laugh. “I want you, I want this, I want…” He laughed for certain. “I want all of it.”

Bucky gave him almost no time to acclimate, wrapping his arms around Steve’s shoulders and pulling him down on top of him - and all the way inside of him.

His fingers clenched in Steve’s hair. “I missed you,” he murmured against Steve’s neck. “I missed you so much. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I missed you too,” Steve gasped as he clutched at Bucky, his hips rocking, his hardness throbbing, his hands grasping at every part of Bucky he could reach. “God, I missed you too…”

Bucky wrapped his legs around Steve’s waist, and Steve continued to pump his slick cock in and out of Bucky, faster and faster, until their moans and gasps were at a fever pitch and they had worked up a glistening sweat. 

It didn’t take long. 

Maybe it was a flutter of the muscles of Bucky’s insides, or maybe Steve’s own overeagerness to get into the act itself, or maybe just the length of time that had gone by since the pair of them had last made love. 

Whatever the reason, Steve suddenly lunged forward with all his strength. His breath caught in his chest, his heart seeming to stop as the blood pounded through him under furious pressure, every muscle in his body tense as his insides turned white-hot and poured out of him in ropy gouts, over and over and over until there was nothing left and he collapsed limply onto Bucky’s chest.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Steve could feel Bucky’s teeth scraping gently along the side of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“I want you,” Bucky murmured, breath hot against Steve’s skin. “So badly.”

“You’ve got me,” Steve panted, goosebumps rising on his neck from the delicate scraping of Bucky’s teeth against his neck. He arched upwards slightly, hoping Bucky would continue. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Forever.” Bucky’s lips were soft against his neck, contrasting pleasurably with the sharp feel of his teeth. “I never thought I’d see you again, and now that you’re here…”

“Now that I’m here, I’m not letting you out of my sight again,” Steve finished for him with an exhausted breath of laughter. He closed his eyes and smiled against Bucky’s chest. “And you’d better believe that.”

Abruptly Bucky pulled back and rolled over so that Steve was beneath him. Unfortunately that meant Steve’s softened cock slipped out of him, but he figured they had all evening to fix that.

“I want you.” Bucky looked down at him and seemed to clench his jaw very tightly. He swallowed visibly. “Very badly. You have no idea how much.”

“Then show me,” Steve said, his voice taking on that excited, breathy quality again and his heart skipping a beat in his chest. “Show me.”

Again Bucky clenched his jaw, nearly vibrating with tension. “You don’t…” He inhaled sharply through his nose. “You don’t really know what you’re asking, Steve.”

Steve’s only response was to arch his neck again. Bucky sucked in his breath, and then Steve felt Bucky’s teeth scrape against his neck, just a bit harder than before, enough to drag a low moan of satisfaction from his throat as well as raise gooseflesh on his neck. 

“Missed you, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, lips and tongue soft against Steve’s neck now. “Missed you so much.”

“You’ve got no idea,” Steve whispered back into the hollow between Bucky’s neck and shoulder.

Those were the last words he was able to say coherently for a while. It didn’t take them too terribly long to fall over on the mattress again, rolling around and entwining with one another and gasping and shuddering together in blissful damp heat before collapsing in exhaustion once more.

It was dark when Bucky finally brought him back to the gates of the Estate, the two of them holding hands in the cab, their fingers so thoroughly interlocked that they might as well have been different pieces of the same connected being. 

Steve waited a long time before opening the door and stepping down from the carriage, and he did not do so before giving Bucky a long, lingering kiss.

“I’ve got to see you again,” he said unnecessarily. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Bucky breathed, hands idling on Steve for just a little bit longer. “And every day after that.”

It was only later, as Steve was buttoning his pajamas and gazing absently, dreamily into the mirror, that he noticed the mark on his neck. It was nothing serious, just a very red abrasion in the hollow of his throat where Bucky’s teeth had been intently grazing him, but it made him smile.

_Have to be more careful next time…_

\---

**Royal Medical College - Wakanda**  
**9 July 1897**

After months of research and experimentation, T’Challa was closer to perfecting the serum that had long been the focus of his work. He had already given years - and several misadventures - to his studies, and he wouldn’t stop when he was so close to bringing the serum to its final, perfect form.

It would revolutionize medicine. 

Diseases of the blood - syphilis, viral hemorrhagic fever, and the like - were a growing concern in the wider world, and such concerns - despite their best efforts - would eventually reach Wakanda one way or another.

Best to put a halt to things.

He worked for several hours and was on the verge of at least considering taking a short break for tea and sweets, when his assistant Ayo walked in with an envelope in her hand.

“Now, Ayo.” He smiled at her and closed his notebook. “You don’t have to write me a letter to encourage me to pause for tea.”

Her encouragement was usually verbal, and quite forceful at that. Which was why she made for the perfect assistant.

“You wouldn’t listen to me even if I did.” She gave him a small but formidable smile, her eyes glittering in her rich brown face, and held the envelope out to him. “It’s a telegram, and apparently a very urgent one. From England.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow and took the envelope from her. “What have they gotten themselves into now?”

“I wouldn’t know.” That small smile widened slightly. “I haven’t read it. But you can’t expect them to be able to take care of themselves properly, Professor.”

“No.” He shook his head and used a handy scalpel to open the envelope. “Not at all.”

The telegram was short and to the point. He would have expected nothing less from Natasha Romanoff.

He set the scalpel down and looked at his assistant. “We’ll need to leave for London within the hour.”

\---

**Castle Iarnă - Transylvania**  
**11 July 1897**

Sharon lay there in the massive bed, exhausted and thoroughly sated. 

Jane’s head lay on her breast, the tip of her tongue occasionally flicking out to lightly caress her nipple. Darcy was curled up catlike against her flank, idly tracing patterns on Sharon’s goose-pimpled skin with her fingernails. And Thor reclined with his head in her lap, his large hands gently drifting up and down her thighs - and venturing higher every so often.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten dressed. She couldn’t really recall how long it had been since she’d last even _been_ dressed. There hadn’t been a series of sexual encounters so much as a single encounter that had stretched on for days and consisted of periods of frenzied activity sandwiched between periods of blissful caresses that kept them all floating on dreamy clouds of pleasure. 

Every so often, Sharon would drift off into satisfied sleep. And then she would feel hands or lips or tongues on her and she would drift back into the waking world again, and the cycle would begin itself anew.

At some point - she couldn’t have said when any more than she could have said why - she became aware of being vaguely troubled by something. 

It didn’t become clear what that something was until much later. Hours at least, but it could have easily been days. It had become far too easy to lose track of time of late, and perhaps that was part of what had begun to trouble her. 

But the real matter at hand, she realized at some point with crystal clarity, was that she couldn’t have left even if she’d wanted to.

Not that she did want to.

She’d entered a dreamy world where there was nothing but softness and relaxation, of pleasure that ranged from intense and thrilling to warm and comforting, and of sleep when her exhausted body couldn’t handle any more sexual gratification. 

Who in the world would ever want to willingly leave such a place? 

But even if she had wanted to, it wouldn’t have been possible. 

For one thing, she hadn’t seen her clothes for days, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d vanished entirely. And for another, she’d become so worn-out, so exhausted by the endless bouts of sex - and the fact that her companions made a fetish of nipping her with their sharp teeth to draw blood that they then lapped up eagerly - that her legs wouldn’t have been capable of supporting her if she’d tried to stand up.

And it might have been at that point, when the inescapable nature of her situation became apparent to her, that Steve first reappeared in her mind. 

_It’s a trick,_ he seemed to say, and her face reddened with shame. _They’re keeping you tired. Draining your strength, draining your blood so you can’t get away. But you know you’ve got to._

She did. And as soon as that realization had dawned on her, she began to think of possible ways to escape. To get away from the castle, to get out of this land where everything seemed wrong once she’d spent any time looking at it with even half a critical eye. To get to a road, to a train, to a port, and somehow back home.

\---

**Stark Estate**  
**12 July 1897**

Stark had largely been asleep for the duration of Natasha’s stay at the estate. 

She’d made sure of this herself by keeping him sedated; the last thing she wanted was for him to be doing too much moving around. Not only would doing so aggravate his already precarious physical condition, but given where she strongly suspected that condition had come from, she wanted to know exactly where he was at all times.

A commotion outside made her smile. Dr. T’Challa had a way of arriving in grand style wherever he went, and judging by the size of the reaction she’d heard, this was an entrance she wouldn’t want to miss. Rising from her desk and giving a casual glance over her shoulder at the closed door to Stark’s room, she went over to the window and pulled the drapes aside.

A huge whale was descending from the sky directly over the largest portion of the estate’s grounds. The creature was easily fifteen fathoms long and looked too immense to be believed, but it floated gracefully through the air with smooth and subtle movements of its gigantic tail and flippers, much to the astonishment and consternation of the groundskeeping staff who were gathering to observe its descent. 

A large gondola-like structure was suspended beneath the whale, and seated in the center of that gondola was Dr. T’Challa. A tall woman with dark skin and a gleaming, shaven head stood at the rear of the gondola, her hands on a wheel which seemed to be connected to a complicated series of ropes leading to various parts of the whale’s anatomy. She was guiding the creature, Natasha realized as she turned away from the window and headed downstairs - actually piloting the massive thing as she might have steered a ship.

“Dr. T’Challa.” She strode up to the hovering whale just as the doctor was descending from it and offered him a smile along with her hand. “I see your journey was an imaginative one.”

T’Challa raised an eyebrow and took her hand. “Yes, well, with all our advances in flight of late, travel time has been reduced by half.”

Behind him, another dark-skinned woman - clad in a long, brightly colored _bazin_ dress and an intricate _gele_ wrapped around her head - leaped from the gondola and landed gracefully on her feet.

T’Challa gestured toward her. “You’ve met my assistant, Ayo.”

“A pleasure.” Natasha hadn’t forgotten the woman, and she offered her a hand as well before turning back to T’Challa. “It’s a good thing you were able to get here so quickly.” Her expression darkened. “I don’t know how long ago it happened, but Stark looks like at least a semi-advanced case.”

T’Challa nodded and seemed poised to say something, when Ayo interjected.

“Professor?” Her eyes were fixed on some vague point in the sky. “This Stark has already had a visitor this evening.”

“What?” Natasha recoiled and whipped her head around to look back at the house. “I was sitting outside his door not five minutes ago. He’s been sleeping…” She trailed off, a cold unease growing in the pit of her stomach. Could that ‘visitor’ be there right now?

She exchanged a glance with T’Challa, saw in his eyes the same icy apprehension, and dashed toward the house after him without any further ado. Ayo followed a step or two behind them.

The three of them burst through the doors of the manor and past a very astonished-looking Jarvis, bounded up the stairs two at a time, and flung open the door to Stark’s room without preamble.

“Ah.” T’Challa’s lips thinned into a disapproving line. “You were right, of course, Ayo.”

Ayo nodded. “As always.”

Stark lay sprawled on his bed, naked save for a long green robe that was untied and tangled with the bedclothes. His eyes were closed, but a look of ecstasy was writ large on his face. His skin had gone deathly pale, and Natasha could see that the wounds on his neck were much more pronounced than they had been before. A drop of fresh blood gathered at each puncture.

Miss Potts chose that moment to burst into the room. “Good Lord.” Her face blanched and for a moment, Natasha thought she might faint. “What happened?”

“He’s taken a turn for the worse.” Natasha moved towards her, attempting to hurry her out of the room. There was no need for her to see what had happened to Stark, nor what they might have to do in order to save his life. “Please, we need to help him. Wait out here.”

She closed the door on Miss Potts’ protests and turned to T’Challa with an uneasy feeling. “Are we too late?”

“Perhaps.” T’Challa plunked his heavy doctor’s bag down on the bedside table and opened it. “But we’ll see what we can do. He’ll need a blood transfusion immediately.”

Ayo looked at Natasha. “Only your blood won’t do.”

“I know that,” Natasha shot back, but before she could finish, the door banged open again. She whirled, prepared to physically usher Miss Potts out, only this time, it was Lord Rhodes who barrelled into the room.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” he demanded with the air of a man used to being deferred to. “Miss Potts says she was shoved out of the room. What are you doing here?” He rounded on T’Challa. “And who is he?”

“And why is there a whale floating in the garden?” Miss Potts shouted through the door.

“Yes,” Lord Rhodes added. “That too.”

“This is Dr. T’Challa, Lord Rhodes.” Natasha spoke quickly while helping T’Challa to unpack his transfusion equipment. “We’re trying to save Mr. Stark’s life; he’s taken a bad turn.” She turned to regard him, her eyes unblinking. “And never mind the whale. Just sit in the chair and roll up your sleeve.”

The insertion of the needles into Rhodes’ and Stark’s veins was carried out quickly enough, and soon the transfusion was underway. T’Challa operated the suction pump while Natasha shifted her attention between Stark and Rhodes. The pallor was slowly beginning to leave Stark’s face, and his breathing was becoming more regular. Still, T’Challa kept the transfusion up for far longer than she herself would have, and Rhodes was too weak to stand by the time the needles were withdrawn.

T’Challa quickly packed up his equipment, and he and Natasha helped Lord Rhodes out of the room and into one of the parlors, where Miss Potts attended to him, a look of deep concern - and fear - etched on her face.

Ayo stayed behind to keep Stark company.

Or to stand guard, more likely.

Meanwhile, Natasha accompanied T’Challa out into the garden. Dusk was rapidly setting in, but the descending darkness of nighttime wouldn’t be a bother to either of them. T’Challa’s senses had always been almost supernaturally accurate, and as for her own, well… she was perfectly capable of seeing clearly in the dark.

“It’s him,” she said without preamble, her voice low and urgent. 

T’Challa was silent for a long moment, eyes focused on some distant point in the hedge maze. “That would be quite the coincidence, Natasha.”

“Too much so to be a coincidence at all.” She shook her head. “I had my suspicions when my husband started repeating ‘The blood is the life’ and talking about gathering lives for his master. But when Stark said his attacker had blue eyes…” She raised her hands, then let them fall. “You know it’s him, T’Challa. It has to be him.”

“Does it, though?” T’Challa looked at her, his eyes searching her own. “Or do you just want it to be so?”

Her expression turned incredulous for a moment, that incredulity tinged with resentment that he would even suggest such a thing. But the anger quickly faded, and she had to admit that he’d seen things a lot more clearly than she had.

“I won’t lie,” she replied. “I wouldn’t mind the chance to see him face-to-face again. There are some things I never got to say to him that very badly need saying.” Her expression soured as she mulled a few of those things over in her mind. “But whether I want it to be him or not doesn’t matter. It is him.”

A faint, brief smile flickered over T’Challa’s face. “If you say so.” His expression sobered and he studied her for a moment. “And what about you? How has the serum been working for you?”

“Well enough.” She offered a small and somewhat sardonic smirk. “Though I’ve found myself eating a great deal of barely roasted beef.”

“And your husband…?” 

“He doesn’t know.” 

She felt a mild flush of embarrassment at that. She wouldn’t have wanted to keep any secrets from Clint, but given how completely his sanity had eroded once he’d even caught a glimpse of the truth, she didn’t want to imagine how much worse it would be if she’d told him everything. 

“He wouldn’t understand,” she added.

T’Challa said nothing to that, his gaze turning distant again. “And how do you want to tell the others?” At her look, he said, “About him. If it truly is him.”

“I don’t know how to tell them the truth.” She sighed. “What would it take to get them to believe it? They’re going to need some kind of proof. Otherwise, they’ll just write us off as insane.” A wry look. “Trust me. I spend my recent life appraising the mentally feeble and deficient, and taking wild and fantastic stories at face value is a giveaway even for a novice.”

Miss Potts came out into the garden then. “Excuse me, Doctors? But Lord Rhodes would like to have a word with you.”

T’Challa shot Natasha a glance. “No time like the present.”

Lord Rhodes was seated in the parlor, along with Sam, on comfortable plush chairs situated around a low table. A tea service had been placed on the table.

“So,” Sam began without preamble, “did anyone happen to see the floating whale in the garden?”

“Ah yes.” T’Challa took one of the vacant seats. “That would be my transportation.”

Sam was silent for a moment. “So you like whales?”

“Cats, actually.” T’Challa steepled his fingers. “But they don’t fly.”

“All right.” Rhodes reached for his tea with a hand that still trembled slightly from the aftermath of the transfusion. His face had gone a shade or two paler, and his eyes seemed unnaturally glassy, but he was alert. “Somebody needs to tell me what in the hell is the matter with Tony. What happened to him that he needed me to give him my blood?”

“His blood was drained.” T’Challa reached for a biscuit, and Natasha realized that he probably hadn’t eaten since his flight over. “You could see the puncture wounds on his neck.”

“Drained?” A sickened look came over Rhodes’ face. “You make it sound as if someone put leeches on him or some such disgusting thing.”

“You’re not far off,” Natasha said with a heavy sigh. “But the amount of blood he lost nearly killed him.”

“What is it then?” Sam had been slouched in his chair, but he straightened and leaned forward slightly. “Was he attacked by some kind of large animal? A wolf, maybe?”

“Again,” said Natasha with a glance at T’Challa, “you’re not far off.”

“Damn it, this isn’t a guessing game!” Rhodes was nearly beside himself, and Natasha wondered for a moment if it might be better to sedate him rather than let him raise his blood pressure with so little blood left in his veins. “You know something, and if you don’t tell us, we won’t be able to do a damned thing for Tony!”

“He’s been attacked by a vampire.” T’Challa reached for another biscuit. “As far as we can tell, at least twice.”

For a long moment, no one said a word. Rhodes looked back and forth between Natasha and T’Challa with a look somewhere between rage and disbelief. Sam simply gaped uncomprehendingly before offering a question somewhat hesitantly.

“A vampire?” He screwed up his face in distaste. “You mean one of those big bats that drink blood from horses and cows? I hate those things. I’ve lost good animals to them.”

T’Challa hummed in agreement. “Something like that. Only in human form. In Wakanda, we call it _‘obayifo.’_ You might call it ‘undead.’ Either way, it feeds on the blood of the living to retain its youth and vitality.”

That seemed to be too much for Rhodes. His eyes bulged in disbelieving anger, his face working and contorting before he could summon any words.

“Are you insane?” The words finally came, though Rhodes sputtered getting them out. “You’re telling us ghost stories. Do you honestly expect us to believe this ridiculous nonsense?”

“I certainly hope so,” Natasha interjected. “Because if you don’t, and you leave Tony unguarded, the vampire will come back. And next time, Tony might very well not survive it.”

Rhodes looked like he was about to burst, when Sam shrugged and said, “He flew in here on a whale. I’m inclined to believe there could be vampires.”

Rhodes looked back and forth from T’Challa to Natasha to Sam, the anger beginning to drain from his face. It was replaced by sullen, grudging acceptance.

“Fine,” he managed finally. “If it’s true, then what do you suggest we do about it?”

\---

**Stark Estate**  
**meanwhile**

Steve sat there by Tony’s bedside, one hand resting on his sleeping friend’s arm, his mind a whirl of emotions. 

He’d been out walking for a long time, mulling over everything that had happened over the past few short days, and he’d finally returned to the estate to find it abuzz with frantic activity. There were apparently a lot of strange things happening, and the floating whale in the garden was surprisingly the least of them. 

Apparently, Tony was fortunate to be alive, and his situation was still precarious enough to warrant his being constantly watched, which Steve had gladly offered to do.

So he sat there, absorbed in his own thoughts. Sat there and thought about Bucky, who’d simply walked back into his life against all odds. Thought about Sharon, with more than a twinge of guilt, and wondered how - or even if - he could ever explain things to her. And wished bitterly that he didn’t have to make the choice that loomed before him.

\---

**Carfax Abbey**  
**13 July 1897**

In the intervening hours that they were separated (and he counted every one of them), Bucky had cleaned out the cast iron, clawfoot bathtub - along with the rest of the bathroom - to make it more appealing for long term stays. 

He had purchased expensive sheets to put on their bed (and he had already started thinking of it as _their_ bed, even if he would never sleep in it), so that they weren’t rolling around on dusty bedcovers over a lumpy mattress. He had also purchased petroleum jelly in a fancy glass jar so that it looked more appealing on the bedside table (which he’d have to replace).

He had laughed at his own eager domesticity.

And then he had paid Stark a visit. Of course. There was still the plan to keep in mind, more important now than ever since he had Steve back. Had to secure a future for them, after all, and what better place to do it in a city so stuffed with life as London?

Later that evening, Steve gave a nod of impressed appreciation to Bucky’s efforts. “Looks like the place is beginning to come together,” he said with a smile. “All we need now are a few armchairs and a chessboard.”

Bucky wrapped his arms around him and nuzzled his face into his neck. “I haven’t played chess in a very long time. I’ll buy us a board.”

It didn’t take them long after that to shed their clothes and climb into the clawfoot tub. And sitting there in the hot water, their bodies resting against each other, their arms wrapped around one another, a contented smile spread over Steve’s face.

“I feel like there should be a bottle of wine,” he said lazily, his fingertips trailing over Bucky’s upper right arm. “It would complete the decadence.”

“Next time,” Bucky promised. Right then, he was content to just have Steve naked and leaning back against him in a basin full of soapy water. 

The simple things, really.

“I could sit here forever,” Steve murmured, his eyes half-closed and his body perfectly relaxed against Bucky’s. “This was a wonderful idea.”

“It will get even better.” Bucky trailed a slow line of kisses down the side of Steve’s throat as he spoke. “I’ll get the whole house fixed up for us. I’ll hire help. You can move in.”

They could be together again. Forever.

Steve seemed to flinch at the suggestion. It took him a moment to respond, and there was some hesitation in his voice when he did. And yet, he made no move to get out of the tub or even pull away. Instead he leaned into Bucky’s caresses.

“It might take me a while,” he said. “I’m living somewhere already.”

Bucky hummed into the side of his neck. He wanted to taste Steve again. So very badly. “You’re a guest there. This could be your home.”

What had changed…?

“I’m not talking about staying with Tony.” Steve arched his neck into Bucky’s lips, excited gooseflesh rising on his skin. “I have a room. At a rooming house, I mean. It’s not much, but I pay for it myself.”

Bucky frowned. 

What the hell did a rooming house matter, even if he did pay for the damn thing himself, when they could be together again? After more than four hundred years? 

What, he wondered wildly, had changed? 

He wanted to grab Steve and shake some sense into his stubborn skull. He wanted to have Steve right then and there, taste all that Steve had to offer, and then give all of himself in return. 

He swallowed all of it down. Stilled himself. Forced himself to be patient. Steve had always been a stubborn little punk. He needed to come around to things on his own terms.

“All right, Stevie,” he murmured. “Whatever you like.”

“This.” Steve seemed to relax, settling back down against Bucky’s body and turning his head slightly to rest his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder. “I like this. Just being here with you.” He breathed deeply and let out a contented sigh. “Not trying to figure out the future, but just letting ourselves enjoy what’s happening right now.”

A moment of silence passed between them. 

Steve’s hands came to rest on Bucky’s left arm, hesitantly at first, but then with more assurance. “We never really did that before. I know I always took it for granted that I’d always have you.” 

“We both did,” Bucky murmured. “But we didn’t know any better then.”

Steve’s hand tightened around Bucky’s arm, and he hunched against him suddenly. “I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

Bucky nibbled at Steve’s ear. Not enough to break the skin, but certainly enough to nearly drive him over the edge. And he enjoyed Steve’s shivering reaction, too.

“No,” he breathed. “No, we’re not going to make that mistake again.”


	5. They Shine for You

**Castle Iarnă - Transylvania**  
**meanwhile**

Sharon had managed to gather her strength, marshaling her limited reserves of energy in order to make her escape. Under the pretense of answering the call of nature, she’d slipped out of the room she shared with her supernatural lovers and, clad in nothing save a pair of drawers and a shift she’d managed to find on the floor, crept through the halls of the deserted castle until she reached a window.

The window was set high in the face of the crumbling structure, overlooking a sheer drop of so many yards that it made Sharon dizzy to look down even for a split second. But only a few yards below her was a small concave ledge that ran along the wall at a slight downward angle until it ended at a decorative gargoyle’s head. It was little more than a rain-gutter, but it was all she would need.

Somehow she scaled down the wall until her feet found purchase on the rain-polished stone. Slowly, carefully she sidled along the length of the trough until she stood braced against the wall atop the gargoyle’s head.

She allowed herself a brief moment of elation and terror before steeling herself to continue.

The massive stone head crumbled beneath her feet, and for a split, sickening second, her hands just grazed the stone before she plummeted into the rushing water below. 

....

She awoke in a small bed, covered in a rough woolen blanket. The room was softly lit by sputtering candles, and she could just make out stone walls and simple furnishings.

There was also a stocky man with dark curly hair and a smilingly apologetic sort of expression on his face. He wore a brown belted cassock and soft shoes, and at the moment he seemed to be absorbed in the book he was reading at her bedside. When Sharon moved though, he shut the book and stood.

“How are you feeling, Madam?” He peered down at her. “You’ve been asleep for a few days now.”

“Where am I?” She tried to sit up, but her head throbbed with sudden nauseating agony and she collapsed back against the well-worn - but soft - sheets. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. “Please…”

He clucked his tongue and made soothing sounds, and a moment later, she felt a cup of water being pushed against her lips. 

“You’re in a monastery,” he said quietly. “You washed up on the riverbank a few days ago. It seems you took quite the fall.”

Relief washed over her in a crashing wave, making her almost as nauseous as the sudden attempt to sit up had done. She had to curl in on herself until it passed, and in its wake she felt intensely weary. “Am I still in Transylvania?” She reached out weakly for the man’s - the monk’s? - arm. “Did I get away from him?”

“I take it you’re referring to the vampires you’ve been fornicating with,” said a voice that wasn’t the monk’s. 

Sharon turned her head towards the door to see another man coming in. Like the monk, he was dressed in a brown cassock and soft shoes. But this man was entirely unlike anyone she’d ever seen before. He was very tall and slender, with a face so absolutely red that she thought for a moment that he must have been covered in blood. But the remainder of his hairless head was a deep forest green, and in the center of his forehead was a diamond-shaped yellow gem. 

His eyes, though, were entirely normal in spite of the rest of his bizarre face, and they looked at her critically. 

“Sexual relations with the undead are not exactly healthy, and you’ve been overindulging to say the least.”

The curly haired monk frowned and turned to face the newcomer. “Vision,” he said plaintively. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Ah.” The odd-looking monk seemed suddenly contrite. “Yes. Of course.” He turned back to Sharon. “I suppose I should have said, ‘knowing the undead in a Biblical sense’. Forgive me; euphemism still eludes me on occasion.”

The still-unnamed curly haired monk turned back to Sharon, a visible cringe on his face. “He’s… he’s still learning,” he offered by way of explanation, his hands spread apologetically. 

Sharon looked back and forth between them a few times, then spoke up warily. “Who… are you people, exactly?”

“Of course. My apologies. I’m Brother Bruce.” He gestured to the other man. “And that is Brother Vision, who is a… a novice here.” He put his hands together. “Welcome to the Most Holy Order of the Blessed Saint Dymphna. Or, as we like to call it, the Monastery for Wayward Monsters.”

“Monsters?” Sharon looked around, fear rising in her chest. If she’d run away from one nest of monsters only to walk willingly into another…

“A joke, Madam,” Brother Bruce said quickly. “A poorly timed joke. You’re safe here. No harm will come to you.”

“None,” Brother Vision promised. “Of that, you have my word.”

“Oh good.” Sharon smiled weakly. “I was worried for a minute.”

And at that, she rolled over, was violently sick into a bucket by the side of the bed, and collapsed limply into a dreamless sleep. But before she lost consciousness, she heard Brother Bruce speak to Brother Vision.

“We really need to work on your people skills…”

\---

**_A letter from Brother Bruce of the Most Holy Order of the Blessed Saint Dymphna to Steve Rogers_ **  
**_dated July 1897_ **

_Dear Sir,_

_Your beloved fiancee is safe and in the care of the good Brothers of the Blessed Saint Dymphna. She has been very ill, but is on the path to a full recovery. Miss Carter believes that you are both in extreme danger, and she wishes for you to join her immediately and be married._

_We await your arrival._

_Yours in faith,_  
_Brother Bruce_

Steve read and reread the letter, his heart at war with itself as he tried to decide what to do. He should go to Sharon, obviously - it was his duty as her fiance as well as the duty of even a halfway decent man - but if he did, what would happen with Bucky? After thinking him dead for so long, Steve finally had the opportunity to be with the man he’d loved for as long as he could remember.  
And yet, he was engaged to marry Sharon, and now she needed him more than ever before. 

How could he even begin to think about making such a choice?

He found himself walking up the garden steps leading to Tony’s room, not entirely realizing how far he’d wandered, and nearly bumped into the man he recognized as Dr. T’Challa, resplendent in a black frock coat. 

“You’re Stark’s friend.” Dr. T’Challa looked at him. “The so-called living legend of your European stories.”

“I guess I am.” Steve had the feeling this man was poking a bit of fun at him, and he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. Neither was he altogether certain how to respond, and so he changed the subject entirely. “How’s Tony?”

“Gravely ill,” the doctor responded, and Steve could at least appreciate his straightforward honesty. 

“Can I see him?” Steve looked over the doctor’s shoulder, but the most he could see of the room were a few hanging garlands of white flowers. “I have something important to talk with him about.”

“Your fiancee in Transylvania?” At Steve’s questioning look, Dr. T’Challa added, “Stark mentioned her once or twice. And…” He gestured to the letter in Steve’s hand. “You know anything about Transylvania, Mr. Rogers?”

“I was a boy there.” 

Steve was beginning to feel slightly confused. He was obviously supposed to know something, or at least to have guessed what the doctor was talking about, but he was coming up empty. He didn’t care for the conversation very much at all.

“I lived there all my life. What do you want to know about it?”

“Mere curiosity.” Dr. T’Challa smiled, though there was something behind it. “What brought your fiancee to Transylvania?”

“Business.” Steve wished more than ever for the conversation to be over. He glanced over the doctor’s shoulder again, anxious for a glimpse of Tony, but saw nothing except the white flowers. “She works for a solicitor, and she went there because she thought it would be a chance to advance in her career.”

T’Challa said nothing, but he glanced over at Dr. Romanoff, standing off to the side in the shadows of a thickly flowered trellis. 

Steve hadn’t noticed her at all. For a moment, he wondered why that fact made him even more uncomfortable than T’Challa’s odd and insistent questions. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, edged past the doctor, and hurried into Tony’s room.

The smell in the air made him wrinkle his nose when he entered. It was an odd, pungent smell that seemed somehow familiar, and yet he couldn’t place it entirely. It must have been coming from the flowers, festooned in garlands around the room - one was even hung around Tony’s neck - but he wondered why someone would have chosen flowers with such a sharp aroma rather than a more soothing, pleasant scent.

“Tony?” Steve caught his breath at the sight of his friend, now waxy pale and looking frighteningly gaunt and glassy-eyed. He looked for all the world as though he were dying, and Steve felt as though he might burst into tears at the thought of it. He tried to put on a smile, though, for Tony’s sake. “How are you feeling today?”

Tony offered him a weak smile. “Pretty sure I’m dying. I feel like I’m dying.” The smile fluttered away somewhere. “Think this is what dying feels like?”

“Don’t joke like that, Tony.” 

Steve fought to control his voice. He couldn’t lose his friend. Not so suddenly, not on the verge of such a monumental decision as the one he was being forced to make now. Not when Tony could so easily make him smile, or laugh, or simply roll his eyes at the antics he pulled. 

“You’ve got two doctors looking out for you, including one that came here on a flying whale.”

“I was the one who told you about flying whales.” Another strained smile flitted across Tony’s mouth and he managed a breathless ‘ha’ of laughter. “Told you so.”

“I know.” 

Steve reached down to take hold of Tony’s hand. It felt so fragile and wasted, the bones clearly tangible beneath the thin flesh, that Steve was almost afraid to grip it tightly. 

“So you’ve got to get better, so you can hold that over my head for the next few years like I know you will.”

Tony’s eyes trailed from from the hand holding his, up to Steve’s face, and then back down to the other hand, still holding Sharon’s letter. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh.” Steve looked down at the letter and then back at Tony. “I’ve finally got some news about Sharon.” A cloud passed over his face. “She’s ill in Romania. A monastery took her in, and they say she wants me to come there and marry her immediately.” He hesitated a moment, then gave Tony’s hand a squeeze. “But there’s no way I’m leaving you when you’re like this.”

Tony actually rolled his eyes at that. “Don’t be so dramatic, O Knight of the Profound Table. Go marry your fiancée.”

Steve let out a snort at that, though he had tears in his eyes. “I’m not sure about that, Tony. I’m not sure about much of anything these days.”

“Of course you’re not.” Tony patted his hand, somehow managing to make it feel condescending despite how weak he was. “Which is why you should listen to me and go marry your fiancée before she smartens up and leaves you for someone with common sense. And possibly money.”

“But what about you?” Steve couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice. “I can’t just leave you now.”

“Jeez, would you go already?” Tony pushed Steve’s hand away, though he was smiling. “Before you cry on me or something equally awkward and embarrassing?”

“Then promise me something.” Steve leaned over and wrapped his arms around Tony’s gaunt frame, trying not to hug him too tightly but not having much success. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back.”

“Sure,” Tony said easily. “Of course.”

“All right.” Steve stood with a shaky smile. “I’m holding you to that.”

And before he could think better of it, he turned and walked out.

\---

Natasha, from her vantage point outside in the garden, watched Steve’s departing back. Her senses were very acute, including her natural inclination towards suspicion, and her brow furrowed as she caught a glimpse of Steve’s face.

“He knows something.” She turned to T’Challa, her arms folded and a deep frown on her face. “Don’t you think?”

T’Challa nodded. “Certainly he’s hiding something. How it’s connected to the vampire remains to be seen.”

“He spent most of his life in Transylvania.” She raised an eyebrow, looking after Steve out of the corner of her eye. “My husband went insane after going there himself. Steve’s fiancée’s seriously ill after picking up where Clint left off, and now Steve’s heading out there again?” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows a lot more about the vampire than he’s letting on.”

“I would detain him.” T’Challa smiled thinly. “But that would leave his fiancee to the mercies of Transylvania.”

“And if something sinister happens to him in Transylvania,” Natasha continued with what she had to admit was a very morbid smile, “then we’ll know something really is wrong.”

Through the window, Natasha could see Lord Rhodes enter the room and go directly to Stark’s bedside. “I think that’s our cue,” she murmured, opening the glass double doors and entering the bedroom, T’Challa alongside her.

Rhodes turned to the two of them. “How is he? And why does it smell like an Italian restaurant in here?”

Before Natasha or T’Challa could reply, Stark’s eyes widened. “It’s garlic!” He grabbed the flowers around his neck and attempted to rip them off. “It’s all garlic!”

“Leave them.” Natasha moved forward quickly to hold Stark’s hands, shooting T’Challa an apprehensive look as she did. If he was already having a reaction to the garlic, things had progressed much farther than she’d thought. “They’re medicinal. Trust me, you need them.”

“They’re not medicinal, you goddamn witch doctor!” Stark tried to wrestle Natasha’s hands away, to no avail. “You’re trying to kill me!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha could see T’Challa calmly preparing a syringe full of morphine. 

“Is he having a fit?” Rhodes looked frantically back and forth between Stark, Natasha, and T’Challa. “What’s the matter with him?”

Natasha shook her head and held a violently struggling Stark still. Between his weakened state and her own supernatural strength, she was able to keep him from thrashing around enough for the needle to slide home. And very shortly after it did, Stark’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped into unconsciousness.

On a hunch, Natasha lifted his upper lip gently with her thumb and frowned at what she saw. “Look.” She beckoned to T’Challa, keeping her voice low.

T’Challa’s expression didn’t change much at the evidence of newly-sharpened pearly white fangs. “It’s as I thought.”

“What is?” Rhodes demanded. “What the hell is going on?”

“He’s been attacked by a vampire, as we’ve been saying.” Natasha looked over at Rhodes wearily. “Unless we can find some way of preventing it from happening again, he stands a very good chance of becoming one himself.”

\---

 **Simpsons-in-the-Strand**  
**the next evening**

Steve had wanted decadence and a chessboard, so what better place to take him than one of London’s finest restaurants that just so happened to also specialize in chess (and coffee, though Bucky supposed that part was negligible)?

Bucky arrived early enough to get a feel for the place (dark, quiet, smoky - perfect) and to browse the exquisitely handcrafted chess sets that were available for purchase. He considered having Steve choose the one he liked best, but then decided that it would be much more enjoyable to watch his face light up when Bucky presented one as a gift instead.

The shopgirl wrapped it for him, and then he settled in at a table to wait. (And even nursed a cup of coffee, for the warmth more than anything).

When twenty minutes had passed, Bucky started to grow concerned. And that feeling wasn’t at all alleviated by a waiter appearing and handing him a letter.

He felt himself grow very cold, even before he opened the envelope.

_My dearest Bucky,_

_I’ve gotten word from my fiancee in Romania. She was apparently taken seriously ill on her business trip, and I need to be there with her._

_I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about her. To be honest, while we were together, I almost forgot she even existed. But I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t leave her there, sick and alone in an unfamiliar place. So I’ve gone there to be with her while she recovers and bring her home when she’s well._

_We’ll be coming back as husband and wife._

_Please try to find a way to forgive me. And please believe that I love you with everything I’ve got._

_Yours always,_  
_Steve_

Bucky felt his heart shatter.

\---

Steve stood at the rail of the ship as it steamed through the Mediterranean, looking out at the passing waves and the distant shores without really seeing them. He’d tried to draw for the first day or so of the trip, but whatever he’d set his mind to drawing, his hand had wound up sketching Bucky instead. And after several instances of breaking down in undignified tears, he’d abandoned the attempt to pass the time by drawing.

Except now all he had to occupy himself were his thoughts.

 _You’re making the biggest mistake of your life,_ whispered an accusatory voice in his mind. _He’s the love of your life, and you abandoned him for someone else._

 _What else could I have done?_ he asked himself in a voice that sounded miserably plaintive as it echoed around inside his head. _Sharon’s sick and alone. I couldn’t just leave her there, could I?_

 _And how sick and alone do you think Bucky feels after getting that letter?_ Steve cringed away from the voice and its pounding recriminations. _You’re going there to marry Sharon. And when you come back to England - back to Bucky - you’ll be a married man._

The voice scoffed angrily at him. 

_You ought to be ashamed._

\---

Bucky could hardly remember getting up and leaving the restaurant. He had a vague impression of the shopgirl calling after him - “Sir? Sir, your package?” - but it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

He had the sudden, powerful urge to go back to Carfax Abbey, to retreat deep into the cellar where his coffin lay, and to crawl into its soft, dark embrace for days.

Until the whole world went away.

He had hazy memories of doing something similar so many human lifetimes ago. Of occasionally falling into a deep melancholy and crawling into bed, hiding under the blankets and refusing to be roused by anyone or anything.

Except Steve.

Always Steve. 

His heart twisted violently in his chest.

Abruptly he turned and headed away from Carfax Abbey. He shifted into a black cat - the better to run unnoticed through the streets. 

He wouldn’t crawl into a coffin and grieve. He wouldn’t cry or would wait for the world to end. Those emotions were for men, and he had long ago cast aside his humanity. 

The plan would be finished. 

Tonight.

\---

**_From the Book of Ancient Lore and Forbidden Mysticism_ **

_“The Hydra cult, in their effort to create the ideal superior warrior, turned to ancient blood magic and ritual. By harnessing the powers of the nightwalker, they would create a vast, undefeatable force, capable of overrunning all of Christendom._

_All of their unfortunate test subjects died, save one - a captured warrior of the Order of the Shield. The cult used their stolen magicks to create a vampyre that they alone could command and control._

_But as for what happened to him - that is lost to the ages.”_

T’Challa slammed the heavy book shut and frowned deeply. He sent Ayo to find Natasha, and when the both of them reappeared, he spoke without preamble:

“I’d like to speak to your unfortunate husband.”

Natasha nodded once. “Of course.” 

It was the work of only a few moments to tell Lord Rhodes and Sam Wilson where they were going - and that they needed to be on constant alert for the entire night - and then they were on their way to the asylum.

\---

It was the work of only a few moments to blow past the cowboy, the lord, and the nervous housekeeper, leaving a trail of stunned, unconscious bodies in his wake.

Bucky could have finished them right then and there, but he thought it would be more interesting for Stark to do it later.

Speaking of…

He stood at the door to Stark’s bedroom and watched with pleasure as the garlic blossoms shriveled and died all around him. In his sleep, Stark’s pale and sickly face broke into a wide smile.

“Miss me?” Bucky murmured, coming into the room and tossing his hat to the floor.

Stark gave a low moaning noise of satisfied acquiescence, his eyelids fluttering, and reached out with sleep-mired arms. 

“I was waiting for you,” he said dreamily, his eyes slowly opening as a languid smile spread across his face. “Wondering when you’d come back.”

“I’ve been busy.” Bucky sauntered over to the edge of the bed and hooked a finger around the shriveled garlic necklace. “And so have you. Look at this.”

“I’m not busy right now,” Stark said with a coy smile. He let his eyelids drift back down and arched his neck slightly, baring his throat to Bucky. “Are you?”

“Oh no.” With a slight yank, the necklace was off. Bucky tossed it aside, then trailed a finger down Stark’s throat, skimming over the twin puncture marks that had yet to fade. “No, I have nothing else going on this evening.”

Stark uttered another contented, moaning sigh and smiled even more broadly. “Much better.” He stretched out on the bed, writhing beneath the sheets. “So much better.”

Bucky pushed the covers aside, revealing the silky bathrobe (and little else) that Stark was wearing. He twirled the end of the robe sash between his fingers, then gave it a tug, smiling as the robe parted and fell away.

“You have been waiting for me, haven’t you?” He ran his fingers up and down Stark’s chest. “That wasn’t just sweet talk.”

Stark, now entirely naked, closed his eyes once more and kept on smiling. “I’m still waiting for you now.”

“After tonight, you won’t have to wait for anything.” Bucky’s hand traveled upward, fingers trailing delicately over Stark’s throat and then to the side of his face. He leaned down and ran his tongue across Stark’s lips. “Ever again.”

Stark uttered that low groan of pleasure from deep in his throat again and arched upward into Bucky’s touch. He reached up with slow, languid arms to pull Bucky down towards him. His lips parted at the touch of Bucky’s tongue, and he seemed eager - practically desperate - for more.

And Bucky was very willing to oblige.

He positioned himself between Stark’s spread thighs, and it was the work of only a few moments to undo his trousers and prepare both himself and Stark with the fancy lubricant that Stark kept in a glass jar beneath his bed. 

“Please,” Stark murmured, lips hungrily on Bucky’s. “Please…”

“Please what?” Bucky trailed a line of kisses from Stark’s lips to his throat, lingering over the puncture marks. “You have to tell me what you want.”

“You,” Stark panted, arching his neck upward to meet the kisses and threading his fingers into Bucky’s hair. “I want you. Whatever you have to give me, I want it.”

Bucky pushed into Stark suddenly and quickly found a steady rhythm pumping his slick cock in and out of Stark’s ass. 

“I can give you everything,” he breathed over Stark’s desperate moans, jaw aching with need and desire. He ran his tongue across the sharp points of his teeth, the salty tang of his own blood filling his mouth. “I can give you eternity.” 

He brought his lips to Stark’s, and Stark met him eagerly. _Hungrily._ So much so that instead of pulling away when he tasted the blood in Bucky’s mouth, he actually kissed back with greater passion. He clenched his fingers in Bucky’s hair and scissored his legs around Bucky’s waist, moaning into Bucky’s mouth enthusiastically.

“Do you want to live forever?” Bucky pulled back slightly, smiling when Stark whimpered. He admired the streak of blood across Stark’s lips and tightened his fingers against the back of Stark’s head. He rocked his hips steadily; the feeling of Stark tightly gripping his swollen cock would soon drive him over the edge. “You have to want it, Tony.”

“Yes.” Stark looked up at him, smiling a bit breathlessly. He dragged his fingernails across Bucky’s scalp and tried to kiss him again. “Yes, I want it. I want everything you’ve got to give me.”

Bucky’s smile widened and he sank his fangs into the side of Stark’s throat. Stark gasped, arching his back and clutching desperately at the back of Bucky’s head, fingers tangling in the locks of his hair.

“Yes,” he cried, spasming around Bucky so intensely that Bucky came with a moan right then. “Yes, please.”

But Bucky didn’t stop. Not at all.

He drank deeply, endlessly, reveling in the warm, coppery taste and the moaning sounds of pleasure and pain coming from Stark. He drank when Stark began to whimper, began to clutch at him with a bit more fear and a hint of panic. He drank when Stark’s fingers began to loosen their grip and go limp, when his breath began to hitch and then trail away.

He drank until there was nothing left, and Stark lay dead and cold on the bed.

\---

**Purfleet Asylum**  
**meanwhile**

“Clint?” 

Natasha frowned up at her husband, who was perched like a bird on his windowsill, his hands gripping the bars and his face thrust eagerly against them. 

“What have I told you about climbing the walls?”

Beside her, T’Challa raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Ayo, but said nothing.

“I didn’t climb up here, Nat.” Clint turned his head slightly, but made no move to come down from his perch. “I jumped.”

“Get down from there.” She sighed in frustration. “And behave yourself. You’ve got a visitor.”

“Is it Nurse Temple again?” Clint frowned. “Her visits are always terrible, Nat. All she does is take my things.”

“She cleans your room, Clint.” Natasha bit back another sigh. “It’s not her fault you fill it with bugs. Now are you going to come down yourself, or do I have to ask the orderlies to help you? Dr. T’Challa’s time is very valuable.”

“Dr. T’Challa, is it?” In one swift motion, Clint leaped down from the windowsill and landed easily on his feet. “That’s a very foreign sounding name. Like an immigrant name.”

“Oh, trust me.” T’Challa smiled thinly. “I’ve no desire to immigrate here.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. It’s terrible here.” Clint must’ve caught an expression on Natasha’s face. He shrugged. “Well, it does. People lock you up. People take your things. Your own things, the things that you collected yourself.”

“He leaves food garbage in the corners to attract flies.” Natasha folded her arms and looked Clint in the eyes as she spoke to T’Challa. “The flies attract spiders, the spiders attract birds, and he eats them all.” She raised her eyebrow at Clint. “Would you like to explain to Dr. T’Challa why you do this?”

“I’m rather curious myself,” Ayo added.

Clint frowned again. “They’ll probably just judge me.” He might have been speaking to T’Challa and Ayo, but he looked directly at Natasha. “This is a very judgy place. The kind of place where your own wife locks you up just because of your dietary habits.”

“You know perfectly well it’s not about-” Natasha started, but Clint raised his voice and added:

“She won’t even let me have a kitten.”

T’Challa looked back and forth between the two of them. “Bit of marital strife is what I’m hearing.”

“I assume you can understand why I refuse to let him have a cat?” Natasha felt herself nearing exasperation, and it required a mighty effort to drag herself back from it. “He was perfectly fine until his trip to Transylvania.”

T’Challa looked at her for a long moment. “And why did you let him go to Transylvania?”

“Yeah, Nat.” Clint looked a little too pleased with himself. “And why did you let me go to Transylvania?”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she glared at Clint. “Because it’s a large enough place that you could easily have gone there and not encountered the one very prominent vampire I knew was there. And yet, that’s exactly what you did.”

“The Master opened my eyes to new ways of thinking,” Clint said grandly. “New ways of perceiving the world. There’s no going back through the veil once you’ve gone beyond it.”

Ayo snorted.

“I see.” T’Challa looked at him for a moment. “And did the Master tell you that?”

“No.” Clint leaned back against the wall and glared sourly at the both of them. “No, the Master didn’t tell me that. He told me... “ He shook his head. “He told me…”

Natasha gestured for him to continue, her eyes flickering over to T’Challa’s.

Clint burst out laughing suddenly. “He told me that you’re both so stupid. Both of you.” He nearly doubled over, holding his sides together. “Both good doctors. The both of you are morons.” He pointed to Ayo. “You too, I’m sure. All of you are idiots.”

“Oh?” Natasha raised an angry eyebrow at her husband. “And I’m sure he also told you why. So let’s hear it.”

Ayo sucked in her breath. “We’re too late.”

“You’re too late,” Clint agreed, still laughing. He slid down to the floor and looked at them, glee writ large across his face. “Who are you trying to save? Where’s your precious patient now, huh? Where is he, Nat?”

T’Challa backed up a step, his expression an awful mixture of anger and horror. “We walked right into this. We’re too late.”

“You’re too late, you’re too late!” Clint laughed and laughed, pointing to them now. “The blood is the life, and the Master knows it! We all know it! The blood is the life!”

Natasha turned on her heel and darted out of the cell, calling out for Nurse Temple to stay with Clint. She ran out of the asylum as quickly as she could, T’Challa and Ayo behind her all the way, a cold feeling of dread clutching at her heart as they raced back to the manor in a carriage. 

But Clint had been right. She was too late.

Miss Potts, Sam Wilson, and Lord Rhodes all lay strewn about the hall, unconscious but thankfully alive. None of them showed signs of having been bitten either, a relief whose edge was quickly blunted by what they found in Stark’s room.

Stark lay in his bed, the sheets thrown back and his robe flung open, his eyes wide and unseeing in his paper-white face. He was very obviously dead, and even more obviously drained of every last drop of blood.

She hated the helplessness she felt, hated it with everything she had. They’d been outmaneuvered, outsmarted, maybe even outmatched. And Stark had died because of it. 

“What are we going to do now?” 

\---

**Stark Estate**  
**several days later**

The funeral was as elaborate and opulent as everything Stark had done while he was alive. 

His coffin, with sides of thick etched glass and edges of gold, sat surrounded by an ocean of flowers in the viewing room while mourners came and went. Outside, in the family cemetery, his enormous mausoleum was being prepared for the interment that evening.

Natasha stood silently in the back of the room, watching the endless procession of mourners. Miss Potts and Lord Rhodes sat side by side in the front row of chairs. Both of them seemed inconsolable, and spent most of the time either staring numbly ahead at the coffin or slumped against one another’s shoulders with their eyes squeezed shut against a flood of tears.

If they only knew how much worse it was likely to get, Natasha thought grimly.

T’Challa was alongside her suddenly. “We won’t have much time,” he murmured. “I’ve prepared the serum, and if that should fail to work, we must be prepared for the alternative.”

“I know.”

The notion that the serum might fail to work filled her with dread, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giving voice to her fear. 

“I’ll administer it myself,” she said. “But we’ll have to wait until after the burial. Probably until after the guests leave as well, which means it might take several nights.”

“No, Natasha.” He shook his head. “You know that he has to take it willingly and continually. That’s the point. It won’t work in the long run otherwise.” He focused his gaze on the elaborate glass coffin. “And if he doesn’t…”

“He’s got to.” 

Natasha was surprised by the force with which the words came out of her own mouth. She looked at Lord Rhodes and Miss Potts again, the pair of them still in the same seats they’d taken hours ago. If Stark’s death had hit them this hard, she could only imagine what would become of them if the serum failed and they were forced to deal with Stark in a more brutal fashion.

“I’ll convince him.” The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a smile born of black humor. “I’m told I can be very persuasive.”

“For his sake and theirs,” T’Challa shifted his gaze to the grieving figures of Lord Rhodes and Miss Potts, “I hope you’re correct.”

She had nothing to say to that, but she needed air. She needed to go outside and clear her head, at least for a moment.  
No one saw her leave the room. No one noticed her wander out to the garden. And no one watched as she walked out towards the hedge maze and sat down on the stone bench to lose herself in thought.

“Hello, wife,” a pleasant voice said behind her. “Long time no see.”

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was, but she turned slowly all the same. “‘Wife’, is it?” She looked up at James, or Count Iarnă, or whatever he preferred to call himself lately, and arched an eyebrow. “I can’t remember you calling me that in quite some time.”

He smiled easily at her, though there was something behind it. “Only if you consider twenty years a long time.”

“Is that why you never bothered to come looking for me?” The corner of her mouth quirked slightly. “Or were you too occupied with your three other spouses even to notice I was gone until now?”

His smile sharpened. “Did you want me to hunt you down, babydoll? Would that have made it more exciting for you?”

“You would have been disappointed.” 

She stood and smiled, having almost forgotten the ease with which they’d always been able to banter. The smile showed off her teeth, whose sharpness the serum had not been able to remove.

“I’m much less interested in your sort of entertainment these days.”

“Too busy playing doctor?” He took a step toward her. “That more entertaining for you?”

“More entertaining than lounging around a crumbling castle with a handful of vapid dilettantes and scheming over how to lure in tonight’s dinner?” She laughed and took a step closer to him. “What do you think?”

“Vapid dilettantes?” He closed the gap between them and smiled down at her. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? You don’t like Thor? Prefer your own vapid dilettante with the arrows instead?”

“He was considerably less vapid before you got to him, _husband_.” She lifted her chin and looked up at him, smiling. “In fact, I wonder if it’s just the effect you have on people.”

He chuckled at that. “No, babydoll, I think you chose him because he’s vapid.” He reached out suddenly and tucked a stray curl behind Natasha’s ear. “Don’t want him thinking too much, do you? Asking too many questions?” 

“What questions does he have to ask?” She smiled up at him and placed a finger on his lips. “Why I eat my steaks rare? The serum keeps my baser instincts under control. Keeps me from embarrassing myself the way we vampires seem prone to doing.” She shrugged, still smiling. “Now you, on the other hand… I think you enjoy debasing yourself.”

He hummed in what seemed like delighted approval and made no move to push her finger away. “I seem to remember you enjoying the way I debased you.” He put a hand over hers, and she could feel his lips move against her fingers. “The way we debased each other.”

She couldn’t deny the ripple of excitement that passed through her when she thought of those times. Of being seized by his tremendous strength and pinned to the bed while he had his way with her. Of coming into her own vampire’s strength after he’d turned her, and pinning him down so she could have her way with him. Of the way their fangs had pierced each other’s skin, the taste of their mingled blood in both their mouths as they kissed…

“We all have to grow up sometime.” She pressed herself against him and looked up with a wry smile. “It just comes more naturally to some of us that it does to others.”

“And do you enjoy your nice, grown up life, my dear, sweet Natalia?” His other hand moved to the back of her waist and he pulled her impossibly closer. “With your nice, perfectly safe, grown up husband?” He leaned in, breath warm against her ear. “Who has no idea who or what you really are? No idea what you’re really capable of?”

“I know,” she murmured, her eyelids drifting down as she let his voice wash over her. “I know what I’m capable of, and that’s all that matters.”

She could _hear_ the smile in his voice. “Is it, really? That’s all you desire? All you-”

“And what’s this?” T’Challa’s voice broke in suddenly.

Natasha’s eyes flew open and she recoiled forcefully. Not just from the shock of T’Challa’s voice, but also from the massive wave of mortified guilt that had crashed over her. She backed up a step, her hand coming to her throat protectively even though James hadn’t even come close to biting her, and felt her mouth opening in useless explanation.

“I…” 

There really was nothing to say. James had disappeared - not merely hidden himself from sight with his powers, but actually run away - and she was alone in the garden with T’Challa. 

“What is it that you feel for that _monster_?” T’Challa demanded without preamble. He held up a finger. “And before you answer, remember that Stark’s funeral is because of him. And your husband’s condition. And very likely what happened to Sharon Carter and quite possibly Steve Rogers.”

“I know that.” Natasha could feel herself reddening and hated it. “You don’t need to remind me. I know what he’s done.” She raised her hand to her throat again, her fingertips tracing the spot where, twenty-five years earlier, James had bitten her. “I know it better than anyone.”

“And when the moment comes,” T’Challa’s eyes bored into hers, “will you kill the monster? Will you strike with everything that you have? For Stark and your husband and Sharon Carter and Steve Rogers? For yourself?”

“Kill him?” 

She took a step backward, her heart clenching in her chest as the words hit home and the reality struck her. Was that what T’Challa had wanted all along? 

“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll stop him from doing any more harm. But I won’t kill him.”

T’Challa looked at her for a long moment. “As I thought. Then you leave it to me.” He turned to leave. “It’s a good thing you called me here, Dr. Romanoff. A very good thing.”

“And I won’t let you kill him either.”

The words were out of her mouth almost before she knew she’d been about to say them. But she supposed she’d known all along that she would.

“He needs to be stopped; I’ll agree with you there.” She kept her hands by her side, but couldn’t stop herself from balling them up into fists. “But not killed.”

T’Challa stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “And how will you stop me, Dr. Romanoff? Will you kill me to protect the monster?”

He walked away before she could respond, leaving her alone in the garden to sink back down onto the stone bench and dwell on his words. 

And while of course she wouldn’t kill him - wouldn’t even dream of doing so - she did have to ask herself an honest question: How far would she be prepared to go to prevent one of them from killing the other? 

And what was likely to happen to everyone else in the meantime?


	6. They Burn for All to See

**Most Holy Order of the Blessed Saint Dymphna - Romania**  
**meanwhile**

Soon after Steve arrived at the monastery, Brother Bruce sat Sharon down and spoke to her gently about the planned marriage. 

“Marriage is a very serious commitment, Madam.” They sat in the well-tended garden of the monastery, a pot of herbal tea on a stone table between them. “Before the eyes of God, yes, but more importantly, in your own soul.”

“Yes, I know.” Sharon picked up her tea cautiously, sensing that this conversation would soon become uncomfortable. “I don’t plan to treat my marriage frivolously.”

“You’re not a frivolous woman, and you’ve been through quite a bit.” Brother Bruce kept his hands resting in his lap, the cup of tea steaming before him. “You might consider being open with your fiance about it.”

Sharon took a long sip of tea, then set the teacup down. Unfortunately, that left her hands with little to do, and she wound up twisting them in her lap.

“Steve’s been through quite a bit as well.” She kept her eyes on her hands. “I don’t want to shift even more onto his shoulders.”

“You don’t want to start your marriage by hiding things from each other,” Brother Bruce said mildly. “There’s nothing but difficulty on that path.”

“Difficulty I can handle.” Sharon let out a deep sigh and looked up at Brother Bruce with worry writ large on her face. “But I can’t tell him everything.” 

She shook her head, unable to lock the memories away from herself. Incapable of shutting off the images and sounds that flooded her mind, reminders of the three vampires who had been her constant and intimate companions for those long weeks in the castle. 

“Most things. But not everything.”

Two days later, Sharon and Steve were married in a small village church by a somber-faced priest, with Brother Bruce and Brother Vision in attendance. Like Sharon, Steve was all smiles on the outside, but Sharon couldn’t shake the feeling that he might have been every bit as conflicted on the inside as she herself was.

They didn’t consummate their marriage that night, nor the next one, nor on the passage back to London.

Homecoming was a somber affair. Tony Stark’s death hung like a dark storm cloud over everything and everyone. Steve seemed to close down when he heard about it, and even though Sharon hadn’t known Tony too terribly well herself, she felt his loss as acutely as Steve did.

She helped Steve move his things from Stark Estate, and her Aunt Peggy helped them secure a small flat near the firm. It wasn’t too terribly much, especially compared to the grandeur and luxury of the estate, but it cozy and warm, and it would have to be enough for a while. 

All in all, she reflected on the carriage ride through the drizzly London streets to their new home, it was not a heartening start to a marriage. 

The carriage lurched to a stop in a busy pedestrian thoroughfare, and rather than try to make halting conversation with Steve, Sharon let her gaze drift out the window.

Count Iarnă stared back at her from across the street, amidst the throngs of pedestrians. He was considerably younger and more handsome than she had previously seen, but there was no mistaking who he was.

The thought dragged a terrified gasp from her. “It’s him. Steve, it’s him, it’s him.” She realized she was babbling, but she didn’t care. “It’s him.”

“Who?” Steve was by her side in an instant, looking out across the street, but the Count’s face had vanished from the milling crowd. “Who is it?”

The carriage began moving through the streets again, but that did little to quell Sharon’s growing sense of terror. 

“It’s him. I know it’s him.” She shook her head, tried to will the panic down. “Younger somehow, but it’s him.”

\---

Sharon’s burst of panic in the carriage had unnerved Steve, but he managed to hold it together until they returned to their new flat. At that point, he made her a very strong cup of tea and encouraged her to go to bed. 

“I don’t need to go to bed. I need to figure this out.” Sharon paced back and forth in their small parlor, nightgown swirling about her legs. “I knew he was coming to London, after all. I suppose I had let myself forget about it.”

Steve was on the point of telling her that she was just seeing things, that what she really needed after her ordeal was a good night’s sleep, and thinking that what he really needed was some time by himself to sit and think and make sense of what he’d gotten himself into, when something sprang to mind that knocked everything else into disarray.

Bucky had come to London from Transylvania. Count Iarnă had come to London from Transylvania. Bucky had said he owned a few properties around London. Sharon had gone to Transylvania to finalize Count Iarnă’s ownership of a few properties around London. 

Bucky was Count Iarnă.

“-do about it.” With a start, Steve realized Sharon was looking at him, annoyed expression very clear on her face. “Are you listening at all?”

“Of course,” he lied automatically, then realized he had no way of backing up his assertion. So instead he smiled wanly and waited for her to go on, all the while trying to quiet the maelstrom in his head.

Bucky was the man who’d imprisoned Sharon. He’d left Bucky to go and bring Sharon home. Bucky was still here, and Steve was still in love with him. Sharon was his wife now, and yet he wasn’t sure he’d ever really loved her the way she deserved. How could anything be made to make sense again?

He was beginning to hate himself.

\---

**Stark Estate**  
**meanwhile**

T’Challa and Natasha had spent several days haunting the Stark family mausoleum, waiting for Stark to appear. 

He didn’t, and so they had nothing to show for their troubles save far too many sleepless nights and a growing sense of concern. 

“There have been no mysterious missing person reports.” T’Challa sipped at the cup of tea Ayo had pushed into his hands. “No bodies found in the street with curious puncture wounds.”

“I don’t understand.” Natasha frowned. “What’s he waiting for?”

Whatever T’Challa might have been about to say was cut off by the entrance of Lord Rhodes and Sam Wilson. Rhodes in particular looked very agitated.

“All right,” he said without preamble, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and looking down at both Natasha and T’Challa. “This has gone far enough. My Tony’s dead, despite your best efforts. So what are you going to do now?”

“We have been looking for him.” T’Challa sounded as if he were fighting to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. “It is my wish that we help him.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Help him do what?”

“I’ve developed a serum that helps a vampire control their blood lust,” T’Challa started, but Lord Rhodes cut him off angrily. 

“This is ridiculous.” Rhodes was practically foaming at the mouth. “Awfully convenient, isn’t it, that you just so happen to have exactly what we need in the wake of your spectacular failure at keeping Tony alive? Do you honestly believe we’re going to accept an assertion like that at face value?”

“You should,” Natasha put in calmly. “I’ve been using it for five years, give or take, and I haven’t had a single incident since.”

Sam nearly choked. “A single incident? You’re a vampire?”

T’Challa nodded. “She’s a vampire.”

Sam whirled on him. “And you knew?”

“It wasn’t his secret to tell,” she interjected in a slightly louder, but even, tone. She didn’t want a fight to break out; even if she would have had no trouble physically separating Rhodes or Wilson from T’Challa, she didn’t think it would do anything to sway their convictions. “It was mine, and I chose the right time to tell you.”

Rhodes looked ready to explode for a very long moment, but gradually - unbelievably - his anger began to subside. He even nodded once, slowly, before speaking again.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s say I believe you. You just said you’ve been using the stuff for five years. That means you need to use it regularly, which means that Tony’s either going to have to use it willingly or we’re going to have to roll up his sleeve and stick a needle into him on schedule, am I right?”

Natasha nodded. “And there won’t be much hope of the latter.”

“He has to use it willingly.” T’Challa picked up a biscuit and ate it in one bite. “Otherwise it won’t work in the long term.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Mind over matter, huh?”

“Not at all,” T’Challa explained. “Rather, the serum requires consistent usage. We can hold him down and inject him once, perhaps, but it’s hard enough to do that to a vampire once, let alone repeatedly.”

Sam cleared his throat. “And if he refuses?”

T’Challa smiled thinly.

“No.” Rhodes’ return to near-apoplectic anger was as instantaneous as it was explosive. “You’re not hurting him, do you understand that? You let him die once; you’re not killing my Tony again!”

“What?” They all whirled to see a very pale Miss Potts standing in the doorway, her face a mask of shock and one hand to her mouth. “What on earth are you people talking about?”

A collective sigh overtook the room for a moment.

T’Challa stood. “Madam, please-”

“Don’t you ‘madam, please’ me,” Miss Potts said angrily, but then instantly turned her attention to Natasha. “You know something. You’ve known something all along. I knew you knew something, but I didn’t know what you knew.”

“And what do you imagine we know?” Natasha’s voice sounded weary even to her own ears. She hoped mightily that Miss Potts hadn’t heard very much. Otherwise, things were liable to get very complicated very quickly.

“That you’re a vampire. And Tony’s apparently a vampire.” Miss Potts whirled on Lord Rhodes now. “Are you a vampire too?” She pointed to Sam and T’Challa in turn. “And you and you? Is everyone a vampire? Are we all vampires here?”

“I’m not.” Ayo walked in right then with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. She inclined her head toward Natasha. “She is.”

Natasha sighed heavily.

“Can we please come back to the point?” Rhodes seemed content to ignore Miss Potts’ hysteria for the moment. “We still need to help Tony. If you’ve got any of this serum with you, we should be able to just go down to the mausoleum and stick him with it, isn’t that right?”

“We could do that,” Natasha sighed again. “If he were there.”

“He’s not there?” Miss Potts rested a hand on an end table, and for a moment, Natasha wondered if she might faint from the shock of it all. “Then where is he?”

“That,” T’Challa said, “is what we’ve been trying to figure out.” He glanced meaningfully out the window. The sky was streaked in brilliant wash of red and purple. “And the longer we stand here, discussing it…”

“Then why are we still wasting our time?” Rhodes straightened his lapels. “Let’s go.”

Lord Rhodes and Sam took a moment to arm themselves. There was very little point to that, of course. Rather like bringing a toothpick to a knife fight, but clearly it made them feel more secure, and Natasha was in no mood to waste time arguing with them.

They walked as a group toward the front door, and from the back of their small crowd, Miss Potts announced quite firmly that she was going along as well.

T’Challa turned to her. “Madam-”

“Oh no. Not that again.” Miss Potts shook her head. “I’ve just heard all of you say that Tony’s not really dead. That he’s a vampire, that he’s not in his coffin, and so what are you saying?” She looked between T’Challa and Natasha angrily. “That he’s _pretending_ to be dead? Or that we buried him alive?”

“He’s not dead.” Natasha folded her arms. “Nor is he pretending to be dead. He’s… undead.” She frowned. “That’s the best word I can think of to describe it.”

“Then I’m coming too,” Miss Potts said. “I want to see him. I want to hear this from him.”

Sam glanced uneasily out the window, at the setting sun. “Look, we’re wasting time as it is.”

Natasha glanced over at T’Challa, raising an eyebrow as if to ask _’Should I_?’ He responded with a nearly imperceptible shrug that clearly meant _’Do what you will.’_ Though she chose to interpret it as _’Obviously.’_

“Then we’d better get going.” She gestured towards the door, then turned to regard Miss Potts. “You’ll want a coat, I expect.” 

And as soon as Miss Potts had gone into the closet to take a coat from its hanger, Natasha slammed the door behind her and slid the bolt home.

“I’m sorry, Miss Potts,” she said in response to the incomprehensible angry yelling from inside the closet, “but it’s for the best.” 

Turning to raise an eyebrow to the rest of the assembled group, she found no argument. Ayo cracked a small smile. And before long, they found themselves all huddled together outside in the cemetery, beside the huge iron doors of the mausoleum, as Rhodes struggled to turn the key in the ornate lock.

Inside the mausoleum, it was deathly quiet. Their footsteps echoed like gunshots in the cavernous marble chamber, and Natasha could see Sam and Rhodes looking uneasily at one another. If she’d still been merely human, Natasha believed she might have been slightly unnerved as well. 

For what felt like a long time, they stood in front of the elaborate stone sarcophagus that held Stark’s coffin. Once again, Stark failed to make an appearance.

Finally T’Challa said, “Let’s just open the thing, shall we?”

Natasha stepped forward and took hold of the edge of the ornately carved marble lid before either Rhodes or Sam could offer their assistance. They’d only strain themselves, after all, while they heaved at the massive slab of stone that she pushed aside as easily as if it had been carved from wood.

She craned forward to peer into the open sarcophagus. They all did. And Natasha realized that Stark might have been more clever than she’d initially given him credit for: wherever he’d gone to, he’d taken his coffin - his resting place - with him.

“He’s not there,” Rhodes said hollowly. He looked up, his gaze shifting to each of them in turn, looking more helpless and confused with every passing moment. “Where is he?”

Sam exhaled slowly. “Out and about, looks like.”

T’Challa frowned, but said nothing.

“Is this some kind of a trick?” Rhodes rounded on T’Challa, his face contorted in uncomprehending fear rather than the anger toward which he seemed so naturally inclined. “Where is he? What did you do with him?” 

He reached out with both hands and would have seized T’Challa by the lapels and likely shaken him had Ayo not immediately stepped between them. 

“What did you do with him?” Rhodes was nearly sobbing now. “What did you do with my Tony?”

T’Challa’s frown deepened and he seemed to look past them all, toward the entrance to the mausoleum. “I believe he’s in the house.”

Natasha didn’t hesitate for more than a split second before turning and dashing towards the house with all the vampiric speed she could muster. The others were behind her at varying speeds, T’Challa in the lead, stampeding madly back towards the manor, and she tried hard not to think about the worst thing she might find upon bursting back into the house. She dashed back past the closet door - open now, and unattended - and through the doors into the parlor.

Stark sat there comfortably on the sofa, his legs crossed casually at the knee, wearing a different suit of clothes than the one they’d buried him in. The ridiculous thought crossed Natasha’s mind that he must have taken the time to go up to his room and change his clothing before coming back down to his obvious objective.

A bewildered Miss Potts sat next to Stark, his arms around her as he spoke what he must have intended to be soothing platitudes to her.

“There, there, Miss Potts.” Stark frowned slightly. “Pepper? Honey? Are we at that point now? Can I call you Pepper?”

Miss Potts managed a strained squeaking sound.

“Well, either way, I would never lock you in a closet like that crazy doctor.” He petted her hair. “And by crazy doctor, I mean she’s a doctor for the crazy, though she also might be crazy. Either way, it’s good.”

“Good?” Miss Potts seemed baffled by the very suggestion that anything about the situation might be good. “Tony, you died! We buried you! And now they’re saying you’re a vampire, and I don’t even want to think about what that means for my job, let alone our relationship, and -”

Natasha was about to say something when T’Challa strode into the room (the rest of the group trailing behind him), pulled a small pistol out of his jacket, and shot Stark in the chest.

Miss Potts screamed. Lord Rhodes screamed as well, though not in so high a register. And Sam Wilson seemed simply to have given up on trying to understand any of it.

“You… you shot me.” Stark looked down at the dart sticking out of his waistcoat. “You actually just shot me. You walked into my house and shot me. That was a thing you just did.” He looked at T’Challa. “What kind of doctor are you?” He plucked the dart out and studied it. “And what the hell did you shoot me with?”

“He talks a lot,” Ayo muttered.

T’Challa nodded. “And yet there’s no serum for that.”

“It’s a serum, Mr. Stark.” Natasha stepped forward, her hands out in what she hoped would be taken as a placating manner, but which would also allow her to grab Stark if he attempted to escape suddenly. “It’s to help you manage your condition.”

“Tony?” Rhodes suddenly seemed to have found his voice, though it sounded uncertain at best. He took a faltering step forward. “Tony, is it really you?”

“My _condition_?” Stark scowled. “What condition? I feel _great._ I feel better than I have in… ever, really.” He looked at Rhodes. “And yes, Rhodey-bear, of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

“Well…” Rhodes hesitated, sounding even less sure of himself. “You were dead.”

“Undead,” Sam chimed in helpfully. “Like the crazy doctor said.”

“Stop calling me that,” Natasha cut in irritably. “You’re a vampire, Stark. And unless your urge to feed is controlled, you’ll be a constant danger to everyone around you.” She folded her arms. “Just like I was.”

“You’re a vampire, too?” Stark raised an eyebrow. “Since when? I’m not the only one? Is everyone here a vampire?”

Miss Potts looked at Stark. “Right? Thank you.”

Stark shrugged. “Any time, honey.”

“No,” T’Challa said, the barest hint of impatience slipping into his tone. “Everyone here is not a vampire. Just you and Dr. Romanoff. And unless you want to lose your head -”

“Literally,” Ayo said.

“Yes,” T’Challa continued. “Then you’ll need to control your bloodlust with a serum that I’ve developed.”

“Oh, good.” Rhodes seemed to sag where he stood with clear relief, but he gathered himself a moment later. In two steps he was at the couch, scooping Stark up in his arms and giving him an extremely passionate kiss.

“I love you, Tony.” He sighed and knelt down, resting his hands on Stark’s knee and on Miss Potts’ as well. “And look, if it means we get another chance together, I’m all for trying to make this three-way thing work.” He fixed Stark with a hard glare. “But you’re taking that serum. Understand? Or I’m cutting your head off myself.”

“Well.” Natasha heaved an exaggerated sigh. “All’s well that ends well, I suppose, but we’ve still got a pretty large task in front of us.” She gave T’Challa a significant look and said, under her breath, “James is still out there.”

T’Challa returned the look, and for a moment, she thought he might comment on what he had seen in the garden. Instead he said, “Indeed, and I think it’s time we question Steve Rogers about it. He should be settled in with his wife now.”

\---

**Carfax Abbey**  
**the next evening**

Sharon had gone out for the evening. To have dinner with her aunt, she’d said, and Steve hadn’t hindered her in the slightest. She’d be back late; Aunt Peggy was a proponent of involved dinner conversation and even more involved post-dinner conversation. And so Steve found himself with the entire evening before him, nothing whatsoever to do with it, and a mind entirely preoccupied with the goings-on of the last few days.

The staggering realization that Bucky was Count Iarnă had shaken him deeply. And even more staggering than that - as if realizing that Bucky had held Sharon prisoner hadn’t been enough - he’d realized that it hadn’t been a dream after all when he’d seen Bucky out in the garden with Tony. It had been real, which meant that Bucky had had a hand in Tony’s death.

It was too much to deal with by himself. It drove him out of the flat and into the streets, where he walked aimlessly in late afternoon fog for long minutes before realizing that what he really needed to do was find Bucky. Find him, and talk to him, and find out what was what.

The cab dropped him at the front of Carfax Abbey, and he wasted no time vaulting over the gate and knocking firmly at the doors. Unfortunately, an answer was not forthcoming no matter how hard he knocked, even when he progressed from knocking to pounding to hammering.

“I know you’re in there!” he screamed, clubbing at the heavy wooden door with his fist. “You come down here right now and talk to me!”

But there was still no answer, and he was on the point of turning away in disgust when a pleasant voice behind him said:

“You know you could be arrested for trespassing. And definitely for the breaking and entering that you’re about to attempt.”

Steve jumped, startled, and whirled to find himself face-to-face with Bucky. The easy smile on Bucky’s face was the precise polar opposite of everything Steve was feeling, and somehow that made him feel even more irritable - and yet simultaneously filled with overwhelming relief at actually _seeing_ Bucky again.

“Are you going to let me in?” he finally said. “Or are we going to talk outside?”

Bucky looked at him for a long moment. “Why would I let you in? Aren’t you a married man now?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, twirling the keyring around his finger. “Better go find your wife before you do something stupid.”

That stung, and Steve knew it would show in his face, but he struck back all the same. “I know where my wife is. More importantly, I know where she was.” He lifted his chin stubbornly. “What were you going to do to her if she hadn’t found a way to escape?”

“She probably would’ve continued having orgies.” Bucky shrugged and moved past Steve to the door. “She seemed pretty happy with that when I left her.”

Steve fumed for a second, but he wasn’t about to give up so easily. “And what about Tony? I saw the two of you that night in the hedge maze. What did you do to him?”

“Only what he asked me to do.” Bucky unlocked the door and pushed it open. “And last I checked, he seemed pretty satisfied with the arrangement.”

“Oh?” Steve took a step forward. “And when was that? Because he’s been dead for the past week, in case you’ve forgotten, and you’d better not tell me you had nothing to do with that.”

Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “He’s not dead. He’s undead.” He stepped through the doorway and finally did turn around, leaning slightly on the doorframe. “Now go home, Steve. Go home to your wife.”

“My wife’s not at home.” Steve felt his jaw trembling as he looked Bucky in the eyes. “And if I wanted to be there, that’s where I’d be. I just…”

He clenched his jaw to still its quivering. He felt his eyes begin to prickle and fought down the urge to blink them. He wasn’t going to let his emotions overwhelm him, damn it, not this time. Not when so much had happened. Not when Bucky was right in front of him again.

“I just think we need to talk.” He swallowed. “About everything.”

There was something ugly in Bucky’s expression. “Why not just write me a letter?”

“Oh, come on, Buck.” Steve felt his face crumpling and was powerless to do anything about it. “What did you expect me to do?”

“I…” The angry expression melted away, and Bucky just looked confused. “I don’t know.” He started to reach for Steve, faltered, and let his hand drop to his side, his expression hardening again. “Not that. Nearly anything but that.”

Steve’s heart caved in on itself, and he found himself reaching out for Bucky with both arms and pulling him into a crushing hug. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said into Bucky’s shoulder as he held him tightly. “I love you - I love you more than anything I’ve ever known - but I couldn’t just leave her there. And I’d already promised to marry her, and…” He shook his head and hugged Bucky tighter. “It’s all a mess.”

Bucky stiffened for a second, then - to Steve’s relief - relaxed into Steve’s embrace. “You’re a mess,” he murmured into the side of Steve’s neck. “I’m surprised you didn’t run here.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” Steve smiled into Bucky’s shoulder, holding onto Bucky tightly less out of desperation now and more out of the fear that his legs wouldn’t support him if he let go. “But it doesn’t matter how I got here. I’m here.”

They stood wrapped in each other for who knew how long, until Bucky finally said, “Did you want to come in then? Or do you…” He swallowed audibly. “Do you need to go home?”

Steve shook his head vigorously; the very idea of going back home right then made his heart sink. What he wanted more than anything else was to go inside with Bucky and somehow make everything right. To sort out the mess they’d found themselves in and find a way to be happy together.

“Let’s go in.” He let go of Bucky reluctantly. “Let’s go in and have a drink.”

The first thing Steve noticed upon walking into the house was that it looked absolutely no different than it had several weeks ago. The few pieces of furniture that were there were still draped in dusty sheets, and it looked as though the same blanket of dust that had been there previously was still there now.

“Buck?” Steve frowned. “How come you haven’t bought any furniture? There’s no place to even sit down.”

Bucky didn’t turn around. “I haven’t needed it, Steve. It’s just been me here.” 

Again, Steve sighed and reached out for Bucky. It made him feel so awful to hear Bucky actually giving voice to his loneliness, and it wrenched at Steve’s heart to know it had been partially his fault.

“It’s not just you here now,” he whispered and put his arms around Bucky again, embracing him from behind.

“I know. For now.” Bucky leaned back against him and sighed, then turned around and looked at Steve. “I don’t have anything for you to drink. If you like, I’ll go out and get something, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s fine.” Steve was hardly surprised; if Bucky hadn’t even bothered to take the dust coverings off the furniture or even buy a few more chairs, he certainly wouldn’t have stocked the pantry. “Mostly we just need to talk. A drink would’ve been nice, but... talking.” He blew out a heavy sigh. “So… a count, huh?”

An unreadable expression flickered across Bucky’s face - just for a second, and then it was gone. “Well, I have a castle,” he offered. “It seemed fitting. And, well…” He shrugged again. “I think I’ve earned it.”

“Earned it?” Steve’s eyebrow went up, and a flicker of interest sparked in his mind. “How?” His brow furrowed. “And now that you mention it, how long have you been out here in the world? I only just woke up a few years ago.” He sighed. “I feel like I missed an awful lot.”

Bucky licked his lips. Hesitated. “Why don’t you come upstairs?” he offered. “You can at least sit on the bed.”

A moment later, they were situated in the bedroom. Bucky stood near the window; the sun was only just beginning to set, streaking the sky in brilliant shades of purple and red. Steve settled down onto the edge of the bed.

“You were about to tell me how you got to be a count,” he offered. “And how long you’ve been awake.”

“Four hundred years.” A small smile flitted across Bucky’s mouth. “Give or take. I never went to sleep. Not like you did.”

Steve had never been struck by a bolt of lightning, but he believed now that he knew exactly how it must have felt. His eyes bulged, his breath caught, and his mind seemed paralyzed by the enormity of what Bucky had just said. His mouth opened and closed a few times noiselessly, like a fish’s as it lay on the deck of a ship. It was a good thing he was already sitting down, or he probably would have collapsed.

“How?” he finally managed, weakly. “I… how?”

“Hydra,” Bucky said shortly. He leaned back, perching on the edge of the window frame. “They wanted to create a ‘vast, superior force’ that would overrun not just Romania, but all of Europe.” 

He smiled, and for the first time, Steve noticed just how sharp that smile was. 

“They got me instead,” Bucky continued. “They had magic, and… other things. Torturous things.” He licked his lips. “I don’t know how long it took. It felt like years, but maybe it was only months, or even weeks.”

Steve felt a fist of ice clutch his heart at the very thought of what the Hydra cult might have done to Bucky. With magic and torture and whatever other horrible things they’d brought to bear on him, they’d managed to keep him alive for four centuries. But how?

“But in the end, they had their vampire.” Bucky drummed his fingers along the windowsill. “They just didn’t figure out how to control me. I suppose they hadn’t gotten that far with their magic.” He looked at Steve for a long moment. “So I killed them all and drank their blood to keep me strong. And then I took their castle for myself. A consolation prize, I suppose, after everything else.”

“Wait.” Steve had finally managed to find his tongue after Bucky’s massive revelation. “Back up. Vampire?” He stared at Bucky with goggle eyes and a gaping mouth. “They turned you into a vampire? You drank their blood?” He shook his head, trying to get control of things. Or at least to sort them out. “Is that what you were doing to Tony in the garden?”

And then it hit him. All at once, so hard that it felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. He felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.

“It was you,” he said numbly. Stupidly. “You really killed Tony.”

Bucky said nothing.

“And what about Sharon?” He felt sick as he contemplated it. “Would you have done the same thing to her if she hadn’t managed to get away?”

Another unbearable beat of silence stretched between them. Finally, with a faint, tired smile, Bucky said, “Go home, Steve. Go home to your wife. Live the life that you planned with her.”

“Well, that’s the thing.” Steve sighed. “Sometimes you can plan everything out perfectly - plan every little facet of the life you want to live - and then it turns out that it isn’t what you want at all.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What then?”

Steve looked over at Bucky, his expression solemn and his eyes sincere. “I was happy with you, back then. Happier than I think I’ve ever been in my life. Happier than I was before, happier than I’ve been since…” He lifted his hands and let them drop. “And then it just ended. You were dead. I figured I’d follow you, and instead I woke up here. And just when I thought I had things figured out and I could try to get by living a life I was never meant for, you came back.” 

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head, and stood. “And if you think I can just ignore that and go back to the way things were three months ago, you’re crazy.”

It took him only a couple of steps to close the distance between himself and Bucky. It took him not much effort at all to reach out for Bucky with both arms. And it took everything he had to hold himself together as he pulled Bucky into a tight embrace and kissed him.

Bucky returned the kiss, pressing his lips bruisingly against Steve’s. For a moment, that was enough, and then their kisses grew desperate. Frantic.

“You’re a married man, Steve,” Bucky muttered between kisses, fingers fumbling with the front of Steve’s waistcoat. “I don’t want you to wake up and regret this.”

“I won’t,” Steve murmured into Bucky’s mouth as he scrabbled at Bucky’s buttons. “I don’t. I never did.”

They stumbled gracelessly to the bed. Bucky stopped and pulled his shoes off, tossing them aside with almost frantic impatience. Steve, meanwhile, was tugging off his own jacket and waistcoat, nearly entangling himself in his clothing in his haste to be rid of it.

Bucky laughed breathlessly. “I’m glad you haven’t changed much.” He helped Steve shrug out of both jacket and waistcoat, then pushed him backwards onto the bed and straddled his waist, fingers deftly unknotting his tie.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve responded with a breathless laugh of his own, reaching up to undo the last of Bucky’s buttons and push his jacket and waistcoat off his shoulders. “I’ve changed plenty. I don’t wear armor anymore, for instance.”

“Well, that’s a good change. Makes this easier.” Bucky slid Steve’s braces off his shoulders, one after the other, then sat back with a sharp smile. “Take your shirt off.”

Steve did as he was told, wondering how he’d possibly failed to notice how sharp Bucky’s teeth were before then, and realizing with a shiver of nervous excitement that a small part of him actually wondered how it might feel to have Bucky trail them over his skin - or even do more. 

He tossed his shirt aside, smiling up at Bucky. “Your turn.”

Bucky smirked. “You do it.”

Steve returned the smirk and reached up with a flutter in his heart. It didn’t take long to undo the rest of the buttons, and soon he was pushing the shirt off Bucky’s shoulders, along with his braces. 

He smiled a bit devilishly. “Now you take off my trousers, Buck.”

They slid off without issue, quickly followed by his underpants, and got lost on the floor somewhere. Bucky flashed a grin at him - Steve couldn’t help but notice fangs this time - and quickly shimmied out of his own bottoms before climbing back onto the bed and sitting against the headboard.

“Come here.” He opened his arms. “I want to hold you.”

Steve was only too quick to obey, his heart beating rapidly against the inside of his chest like a caged bird trying madly to escape. He wriggled close to Bucky, their naked bodies pressing against one another, and he couldn’t have disguised his arousal if he’d wanted to.

Which he didn’t. Quite the opposite, in fact; he wanted Bucky to see, feel, and experience just how much he wanted him.

“I missed you, Buck.” He slid his own arms around Bucky and kissed him feverishly. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” Bucky said breathlessly between kisses. His hands began to wander, one clutching at the back of Steve’s head and the other trailing down to the firm globes of his ass. “And I don’t want you to leave again. Not again.”

“I won’t.” Steve shook his head firmly, Bucky’s fingers clutching his hair. He began to rock his hips, feeling Bucky’s swelling hardness sliding deliciously against his own. “I swear I won’t. Not again, not ever.”

He wanted to not have to talk anymore for a while. He wanted to lose himself in Bucky’s kisses, in his touch, in the sculpted contours of his body. He wanted to wring every last bit of pleasure out of them both, and when the two of them were too exhausted to move a muscle, he wanted to hold Bucky forever as they drifted off to sleep.

Except Bucky wouldn’t sleep, would he?

What would it be like, he wondered with a thrill of nervous excitement, to feel Bucky’s sharp teeth against his flesh in the heat of passion? What would it be like to surrender himself to the possibility - the likelihood, even - of being bitten in a moment of intense pleasure?

What would it be like to go even further than that?

He reached over toward the bedside table where the decorative glass jar of petroleum jelly still sat and scooped out a generous dollop. Reaching down, he coated Bucky’s throbbing length with the stuff before applying the rest of it to his own backside. And it only took a slight shifting of his hips before he lowered himself on Bucky’s cock, moaning as Bucky slid fully inside of him.

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky panted, fingers clenching at Steve’s ass. “Stevie.”

Time quickly spiraled away from Steve as he closed his eyes and began to ride Bucky. It was easy to lose track, with Bucky’s cock pumping in and out of him and his own aching hardness threatening to erupt at any moment. 

Their bodies slickened with hot sweat, skin rubbing deliciously against skin, breath warm and heavy against each other’s necks. Steve found a rhythm, bobbing up and down on Bucky’s cock faster and faster, tearing desperate gasps and cries of pleasure out of both of them.

Bucky’s hands traveled up to either side of Steve’s head and he ran a trail of kisses from Steve’s forehead to his nose and mouth. Anywhere he could reach. He dragged his tongue over Steve’s neck, and still Steve continued to ride him, pushing them closer and closer to the edge.

“Please…” Steve arched his back, rocking back and forth on Bucky’s length as it slid deliciously in and out of him. His fingers entwined in Bucky’s hair, and his lips greedily kissed whatever came within reach. “Please, Bucky…!”

“Please, what?” Bucky gasped, trailing a series of nibbling kisses down Steve’s throat. “Tell me what you need, Steve.” 

“Don’t hold back,” Steve breathed as he arched his neck, offering his throat to Bucky. “Do it.”

“Are you…?” Bucky panted heavily against him, lips grazing the side of Steve’s neck. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Steve gasped as the light touch of Bucky’s lips nearly sent him over the edge then and there. “God, yes, I want it. I want _you._ All of you…”

The needle-sharp points of Bucky’s teeth pressed into his flesh suddenly, and Steve felt an erotic shudder ripple through his entire body with its epicenter at his neck. Bucky’s lips fastened themselves to his neck and began to suckle, and the tingle of pain amidst the tidal wave of pleasure was enough to tip the balance and send Steve into spasmodic ecstasy.

He was conscious of coming with a heady cry, of Bucky laying him back on the bed and lapping at his neck, of murmuring “I love you, Buck. I love you,” over and over again. 

“I love you too,” Bucky whispered, though his voice sounded as if it were in the clouds somewhere. “I love you so much.”

Steve must have drifted off after that, and when he came around, he was under the blanket, head resting on the pillow. Bucky lay next to him, stroking his hair, a lazy, satisfied smile on his face.

“Sleep well?”

“Mmph.” Steve struggled to turn over, reaching groggily up to rub his eyes. He smiled sleepily at Bucky as he came gradually to his senses. “Yeah. How long was… what time is it?”

“It’s only been an hour or so.” Bucky shrugged languidly. “I lost track of time.”

“Oh, damn.” Steve sagged back against the pillow, closing his eyes in regret. He knew what he had to do.

“You have to go home.” Bucky’s expression was unreadable. “Don’t you?”

“Unless I want to be reported missing,” Steve replied with a ruefully apologetic glance at Bucky. His eyes brightened a moment later, though. “But I’ll come by again tomorrow. I want to see you again, and I want to find a way for this to work.” He squeezed Bucky’s hand. “For us to work.”

\---

Sharon pretended to be asleep when Steve crept into the bedroom. She listened to him undress in the dark and pull on his pajamas, then climb quietly into bed, settling under the blanket with a sigh. She bit back her own sigh.

She had not gone to see her Aunt Peggy that evening, but rather, she had dined with Doctors T’Challa and Romanoff. There she had laid bare everything: her infidelity with the vampires in Transylvania, her escape and recovery, Count Iarnă’s appearance in London.

Dr. T’Challa had replied with a mere, “We know,” and she hadn’t really been surprised.

His next question had surprised her though. “During your infidelity with the vampires,” - she flinched at his bluntness - “did you drink their blood?”

“No,” she replied without hesitation.

Dr. Romanoff gave her a long, searching look. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She bit her lip. Hesitated. “They drank mine. Repeatedly. But I never drank theirs.”

“Then you are safe.” Dr. T’Challa shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. But we must hunt down the vampire. None of us are truly safe until he is found.”

Sharon smiled thinly. “Well, I might be able to help with that. I sold him several properties, after all.”

She lay in bed, replaying the conversation in her mind. They would start tomorrow, visiting the properties one by one and destroying the Count’s coffins until they found him or drew him out. 

Only then would they be truly free.

She moved onto her side, propping her head against her hand and looking down at Steve. In the moonlight, he looked peaceful. Content. Unaware of every awful thing that had happened. 

He shifted slightly, and the collar of his pajama top fell open.

Sharon’s heart stopped in her chest. Her mouth had suddenly gone very dry.

Before she could second guess herself, she pushed herself out of bed and fled into the parlor. She picked up the phone and rang the operator, demanding to be connected to Stark Estate. And when a sleepy Dr. T’Challa came onto the phone, she didn’t hesitate.

“He’s been bitten,” she said in a rush. “Steve’s been bitten. By the Count. It has to be him. I know it has to be him.”

Dr. T’Challa was instantly alert. “Then we can’t wait. We must start immediately.”

She had betrayed Steve with her infidelities in Transylvania. Quite possibly they had betrayed each other. And perhaps their marriage was beyond saving.

But she would save him. She owed him that much.

No matter what, she would save him.


	7. Come Into These Arms Again

**Purfleet Asylum**  
**the next day**

Steve was somewhat wary the following day when Sharon, out of nowhere, suggested they all go to the asylum at Purfleet to speak with Dr. Romanoff and Dr. T’Challa, who apparently hadn’t gone back home to Wakanda after the business with Tony had quieted down. And his unease only grew when they arrived to find everyone else gone but for Dr. Romanoff.

“Where is everyone?” Steve’s eyes flickered over to the imposingly barred windows and doors. He found he didn’t care for being in a place whose sole purpose was to keep people from getting out.

“Away for the moment,” Dr. Romanoff said calmly, but then Sharon blurted out with:

“Destroying boxes of earth.” She looked at Steve, mouth settled into firm resolve. “To draw the vampire out.”

Steve felt his heart slam against his ribs. Once, twice, seemingly out of rhythm. He tried with everything he had to keep his face neutral, but the massive wave of panicked fear that had crashed over him was winning.

They were going after Bucky. They were going to try to draw him out. Dr. T’Challa was probably going to try to kill him. And they’d brought him here to - what? Keep him locked up and out of the way?

He looked back at Sharon, a feeling of betrayal settling over him as he realized that she was playing a part in their plans as well. Was she going to stay here? Stand guard over him to prevent him from running out to find Bucky and warn him?

Sharon must have seen something on his face, because she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, Steve, but you’ve been bitten. I had to act.” She took a breath. “No matter what you think of me, of our marriage, I’m going to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Steve took a step backward, his eyes flickering around the room as he searched desperately for a way out. “From what?”

Maybe he could make the door before Dr. Romanoff slammed it shut. If not, maybe he could overpower her and take the keys away from her. Or maybe he could simply try to tear the bars off of one of the windows and get out that way. But he had to get out. One way or another, he had to warn Bucky.

“From making a very bad mistake.” Dr. Romanoff was in front of him suddenly, and he recoiled with shock at the speed with which it had happened. “The same sort of mistake I made fifty years ago.”

“You…” Steve’s eyes bulged as he realized what she must have meant. She was a vampire, like Bucky, and she regretted it. 

Bucky didn’t seem to, though, and as long as it meant they could be together, Steve didn’t think he’d regret it either.

“Yeah, well.” Steve gathered himself and raised his chin stubbornly. “I made a pretty big mistake myself, a lot longer ago. And if I have the chance to make it all right now, then you can bet I’m going to do it.”

Sharon looked at Dr. Romanoff, her expression nothing short of horror, before she mastered herself. “Steve. Please. There’s not a lot of time.”

“I know how persuasive James can be,” Dr. Romanoff murmured. “I’ve experienced it myself.”

“James?” Steve blinked once. “You mean Bucky?”

“Bucky?” Dr. Romanoff smirked. “You call him ‘Bucky’?”

“It’s his name.” Steve’s eyes narrowed. “I was calling him that before you were even born. And-”

“And save this for later,” Sharon cut in, tone hovering just on the edge of exasperation. “I’m going to keep you safe, and we’ll figure out everything - including Count Iarnă’s proper name - later.”

“Count _Winter_?” Dr. Romanoff snorted and shook her head. “He was always a bit melodramatic.”

Steve was about to retort when something in the back of his head counseled him to play along for the time being. He’d stand a better chance of escaping when both Sharon and Dr. Romanoff weren’t watching him at once.

“What are you going to do?” he asked, his shoulders sagging a bit.

“Protect you.” Dr. Romanoff took him by the arm and guided him further into the asylum. He swore he heard a door slam shut and lock behind him, but perhaps he was just feeling tense. 

Sharon didn’t follow them.

“For what it’s worth,” Dr. Romanoff continued. “I don’t want to kill him, but I do want to contain him.”

She led him past a row of clean, sterile looking cells - much better than what Steve imagined an asylum would look like. Most of the patients seemed to be resting, but one of them - a blonde man - sat up suddenly when Steve walked by.

“Master!” he shouted. “Figures you’d go for the blonde beefcake instead of me!”

“Oh, Clint,” Dr. Romanoff said softly. “Not now.”

“I’ve been loyal to you!” Clint banged his hands against the bars. “I’ve been loyal to you, and he’s just a fine piece of ass!”

Steve couldn’t help but gape at that. Especially when Dr. Romanoff tried to hustle him along.

“Who is that?” he asked, craning his neck to see. 

“My husband,” Dr. Romanoff said crisply, practically dragging him by the arm down several more hallways and into what appeared to be a simple guest suite. “He worked for your wife’s aunt’s firm too. He went to Transylvania to do business and came back insane.” She fixed him with a steely look. “Because of James.”

Under the weight of such an obvious accusation, Steve felt himself bristling. It had always been his instinct to stand up under such conditions, especially when Bucky was involved.

“You’re a vampire yourself.” He lifted his chin stubbornly and looked her in the eyes. “Does your husband know that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You let James bite you. Most likely you asked him to do it.” She folded her arms. “He prefers it that way, you see. He did the same thing to your friend, Tony.”

“Which means he didn’t do anything that wasn’t wanted,” Steve countered. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and stood his ground, looking down at Dr. Romanoff. “It isn’t as though he held anyone down and did it against their will.”

She leaned back against the dressing table and regarded him for a moment. “And have you at all stopped to think about why James is making other vampires? Before you become one yourself?”

“Yeah, I did.” Steve looked her dead in the eyes. “Because he was tortured by the Hydra cult, made into a vampire against his will, and spent the next four hundred years alone in a castle. All the while, thinking that the only person he ever loved was dead and gone forever.” He glared at her sourly. “Have you at all stopped to think that maybe he did it because he was lonely?”

“Oh, did you think he was alone?” She cocked her head to the side. “He didn’t tell you about his companions? Three of them, last I checked.”

Steve reeled for a moment before gathering himself again. He made a mental note to confront Bucky about this the next time they spoke. After making sure T’Challa and the rest of them wouldn’t hurt him, anyway.

“Yeah, well, he turned you too, didn’t he?” Steve folded his arms. “And you didn’t bother sticking around.”

She snorted without heat. “You’ve got it bad. There will be no reasoning with you.” She pushed off the desk and headed for the door. “Try to at least wait until I shut the door before planning your reckless escape attempt, would you?”

Steve caught himself wondering whether he really was that transparent, or whether Dr. Romanoff simply had some sort of vampiric power that allowed her to read his thoughts. But he dismissed the notion just as quickly; it hardly mattered whether she thought he was reckless. She’d characterized his escape as merely an attempt, which meant she was overconfident enough to think she’d be able to stop him. 

He’d wait for a while, he decided. Twenty minutes, a half hour, just long enough to lull them into a false sense of security. Long enough to convince them that he’d decided to play it their way and stay put like a good boy. And then, once they’d all let their guard down, he’d tear the bars out of the window and make his escape.

It wasn’t easy to wait for those twenty minutes, though. He went from sitting down to standing to pacing, all the while getting more nervous about what might have been happening to Bucky while he waited. Had it really been a good idea to delay his escape? What if he ended up arriving too late? What if T’Challa and the others managed to corner Bucky? What if -

“How long were you planning on staying here?” a pleasant voice said behind him. A pair of strong arms looped around his waist. “I was looking for you.”

“Oh, thank God.” Steve nearly collapsed into Bucky’s embrace before turning around to put his own arms around him. “I was getting ready to break out of here and go looking for you.” He buried his face in Bucky’s shoulder for a moment, then hesitated and pulled back slightly. “Wait a minute. How’d you get in here?”

Bucky shrugged. “Walked.” He pulled Steve impossibly closer. “I didn’t want to be without you. These are… difficult times.”

“Don’t I know it.” Steve heaved a sigh and returned the crushing hug. 

There was a sense of security in being able to put his arms around Bucky, and a sense of safety in feeling Bucky’s arms around him. And yet, he knew they weren’t safe at all. Not as long as Dr. Romanoff and that Wakandan witch doctor were out there looking for Bucky.

“You never told me you knew Dr. Romanoff,” he mumbled into Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’ve known a lot of people.” Bucky stepped back slightly, his hands going to either side of Steve’s face. “It’s been four hundred years.” He leaned forward, forehead gently bumping against Steve’s. “But I want you.”

And just like that, all of Steve’s questions and hesitations seemed to melt away like mist in bright sunshine. All that remained was his love for Bucky, as firm and solid and unquestioning as it had been four hundred years ago. They were together again, after that impossibly long time and against the longest possible odds. And that was all that mattered.

“I want you too,” he whispered against Bucky’s neck. “I’ve only ever wanted you. I’ll only ever want you.” He squeezed Bucky as tightly as he could. “Forever.”

Bucky’s fingers curled into Steve’s hair. “For as long as you live,” he murmured. “The rest of your life.”

“Forever,” Steve repeated. 

And he realized as he said it what the ramifications of that word were. What he was offering. What he was giving Bucky permission to do. What he’d be willing to give up, to abandon, to sacrifice for him.

Bucky stilled for a moment. Finally he said, “You don’t know what you’re asking, Stevie.”

“I think I do.” He tightened his arms around Bucky as if to prevent him from pulling away. “I want to be with you, and I don’t want anything to take that away. You’ve got forever, but what about me?” He pulled his head back to look into Bucky’s eyes. “We’ve already missed out on so much time together. You can’t tell me you’re prepared to say goodbye to me when my time’s up.”

Bucky’s eyes widened slightly at that. “No.” He shook his head. “No, not again. I couldn’t handle that. Not again.”

“Then you know what to do.” Steve held Bucky’s gaze, a small sly smile coming onto his face. “You would’ve done it before. The last time, when you bit me. Wouldn’t you?”

Bucky mirrored the expression, a hint of sharpness in his smile. “Maybe.” He took Steve by the hand, leading him over to the bed and gently pushing him back onto the mattress, before straddling him. “Maybe I just would’ve.”

“There’s no _maybe_ about it.” Steve smiled broadly up at him and settled back into the mattress with a thrill of nervous excitement running through him. “If I’d given you the word, you’d have done it right then and there.”

Bucky leaned down, his lips just brushing against Steve’s. “Little confident, aren’t you?”

Steve raised his head and pressed his own lips hungrily against Bucky’s. “Why don’t we find out?” he murmured into Bucky’s mouth.

He felt Bucky’s lips curve into a smile against his, and then Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s once more before trailing a steady line of fluttering kisses down to his neck.

Steve shivered.

“Do you want this?” Bucky’s breath was hot against Steve’s skin, his fingers tangling in Steve’s hair. “Want me?”

“Yes,” Steve whispered breathlessly, excited beyond any reasonable description. He wound his fingers tightly into Bucky’s hair, his fingernails scratching at Bucky’s scalp. “God, yes…”

“Tell me, Steve.” Bucky ground himself against Steve, teeth scraping the sensitive flesh of Steve’s throat. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want you,” Steve repeated, and hunched his hips upwards against Bucky’s grinding motions. “I want you now, I want you forever, I just want -”

Bucky’s needle-sharp teeth sank into the flesh of his throat, and it was as though the breath had been stolen from Steve’s lungs. 

“Yes,” he gasped as Bucky’s lips locked themselves to his skin and began suckling at his throat. He tightened his fingers in Bucky’s hair, pulling Bucky hungrily against him. “Yes…!”

He wanted it to go on forever, but all too soon, Bucky pulled back with a gasp. Steve moaned in frustration, and Bucky rolled them over suddenly, so that his back was against the headboard and Steve sat back between his legs.

Steve shifted slightly, mind still reeling drunkenly with pleasure, and he watched as Bucky bit into the underside of his own wrist. 

“Drink, Steve.” Bucky brought his wrist to Steve’s lips. “Drink and live forever.”

Steve was too far gone to even consider hesitating, and the hot coppery taste of Bucky’s blood in his mouth nearly sent him into spasms of delirious pleasure. His eyes rolled back into his head. He felt himself drift away, surrendering entirely to whatever was coming. 

The door burst open at a kick from a booted foot. The room swarmed with people. Dr. T’Challa was in the lead, flanked by his female assistant. Dr. Romanoff was there as well, along with the cowboy Sam Wilson, brandishing a rifle. And in the midst of all of them, a look of horrified accusation on her face, stood Sharon.

Everything happened too quickly.

Dr. T’Challa shouted something and whipped out a strange looking pistol, firing what appeared to be a jet of water. Bucky cried out in pain and scrambled back and off the bed. Sam whipped his rifle up to his shoulder, and the noise of the shot was deafening in the room. Steve screamed in dazed confusion - there was no way the cowboy could have missed his shot at so close a range - and then T’Challa’s assistant raised another odd looking pistol and fired.

Dr. Romanoff was in the way suddenly, knocking the woman’s aim askew. A spray of water hit the wall, close to Bucky’s head. Sharon tackled Steve bodily to the mattress, and before he could push her aside, there was a flurry of movement and more shouting.

When he sat up, dazed and bleeding and breathing heavily, Bucky was gone.

“Why did you do that?” the assistant said angrily to Dr. Romanoff. “Why would you block the shot?”

“Because I’m not interested in killing him,” Dr. Romanoff retorted just as angrily. “Holy water isn’t going to subdue him; it’s just going to hurt him. What’s the matter with you?”

“We hurt him so we can subdue him.” T’Challa glared at her with fire in his eyes. “Unless you have an alternative preference for dealing with a four hundred year old vampire?”

“Hurting him is just going to make him angry.” Dr. Romanoff’s eyes blazed as she returned T’Challa’s glare. “And given how much stronger he is than either of us, I’d say that isn’t the brightest idea.”

“I shot him,” Sam Wilson said in a dazed-sounding voice. He looked down at the rifle in his hands. “I shot him from less than ten steps away with a .30-30 shell, and it didn’t do a thing to him.”

“No, it wouldn’t have.” Steve’s chin was in T’Challa’s hands suddenly, and the doctor peered down at him critically. “You drank the monster’s blood.”

“My God, Steve,” Sharon said hollowly. “My God, why?”

“I love him,” Steve shook his head as he looked up at the woman he’d married. “I’m sorry, Sharon, but it’s true.”

“You’ve made a very stupid choice.” T’Challa dropped his hand and turned his gaze on Dr. Romanoff. “And you? Not so much better.”

“You love him?” Sharon let out a short bark of humorless laughter. “You love a monster.”

“A monster?” Steve’s voice rose a note with anger that he didn’t even try to hold back. “Like someone who’d kick down a door and try to murder someone in the middle of making love? That kind of a monster?”

“Making love?” Sharon stood abruptly, heavy skirt swirling around her ankles. “You call that making love? You were drinking his blood, Steve, for the love of God.”

Steve didn’t mean for it to slip out, but he’d never been able to control his tongue when he was angry. “Well, maybe you should have seen us a couple of nights ago then.”

Sam blew out a breath. “Oh man.”

T’Challa’s assistant looked between Steve and Sharon. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

“You need to think before you speak, Rogers.” Dr. Romanoff fixed him with a cold glower. “Just because I don’t want to kill James doesn’t mean I don’t recognize him for what he is. And just because he didn’t become a monster by choice doesn’t mean the rest of his choices haven’t made him one.”

“And what gives you the right to judge anyone for their choices, Doctor?” Steve returned the glower, though with a great deal more heat. “Especially given the ones you’ve made?”

Dr. Romanoff raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk about choices, Rogers? How about-”

“I have developed a serum,” T’Challa said loudly, “that can control a vampire’s more base urges.” His mouth thinned into a line, and for a long moment, he was very obviously attempting to control his anger. “It’s unclear if it will work on a vampire as old as this one, but it’s either we attempt that or we kill him.”

“Which we would prefer,” Ayo added.

“Yes,” T’Challa said shortly. “This is true. And yet,” he gestured toward Steve, “here we are.”

“You’re not going to kill him.” Steve’s voice dropped to a growl, and he clenched his fists. “You’re not even going to try, if you’re half as smart as you think you are.” He jerked his head at Dr. Romanoff without looking away from T’Challa. “Because I’m not the only one you’ll be pissing off if you do.”

“Don’t presume to speak for me, Rogers.” Dr. Romanoff’s voice was sharp. “And don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Dr. T’Challa may be the best hope of saving both you and James.”

“So what are you going to try to do?” Steve lifted his chin, the anger still resonating in his voice. “If what you really want to do is kill him, how hard are you going to try for something else?”

“We will try to contain him.” T’Challa looked at him evenly. “And if not, then he leaves us no choice.” He glanced at Sharon and then back at Steve. “I’ll leave you alone with your wife, and then I’d like to speak to you.”

Steve wanted nothing to do with that sequence of events, but all he could do was watch as T’Challa turned to leave the room. His assistant followed, fixing Steve with a look as she passed him. Dr. Romanoff urged Sam Wilson out and shut the door behind her, and Steve was left alone in the room with Sharon.

“So,” Sharon said, doing nothing to keep the bitterness out of her voice, “you’ve known him all this time. And when I say ‘known him,’ of course you realize I mean it in the Biblical sense.”

“You’ve heard all the stories, Sharon.” He sighed heavily and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You know who he is. You know what he means to me. I ‘knew him’ -” he accented the words with a gesture of his fingers. “- four hundred years before you were born.”

“And how long has this been going on?” Sharon held up a hand. “This most recent acquaintance?”

“Since a few weeks before I went to Romania to get you.” 

The rest of the conversation was liable to get ugly, and Steve wanted nothing more than to get away from it. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Sharon any more than he already had, but he didn’t know how to avoid it. 

“Look, Sharon, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but…” He trailed off; there was no good way to complete that sentence or thought.

“But what, Steve?” She spread her hands. “Why did you come for me at all then? Why did you marry me?”

“What?” He looked up at her with real surprise - and pain - in his expression. “Sharon, I made a promise to you that I wasn’t about to break. And what was I supposed to do, just leave you there? The letter said you were sick, that you needed me. I couldn’t have just let you suffer alone.” He shook his head, sadness replacing his earlier anger. “How terrible a person do you think I am?”

“You could have been honest about it!” Her voice grew shrill. “You could’ve come to get me, but you didn’t have to marry me! We could have let each other go, Steve! We could’ve... God, we could’ve…” The anger seemed to drain out of her suddenly and she slumped back against the wall. “My God, what a mess we’ve both made.”

“I’m sorry.” His gaze dropped to the floor, and he shook his head slowly. “I never meant to hurt you.” He sighed. “I’m probably the worst husband in the world.”

“Probably,” she said automatically, though without heat. “But I haven’t been the best wife either.” A beat passed between them. “Why did you drink his blood? That’s only going to make this worse for you.”

“Because we lost each other once.” He looked up at her and responded without hesitation, and with absolute honesty. “Neither of us could live through it again.”

“So you’d rather be a vampire?” She raised an eyebrow. “Give up your humanity? Maybe go live in his dank castle?”

“Think about it, Sharon.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and held her gaze. “To know for certain that we’d never have to be apart again, that not even death could separate us? To have the chance to love each other forever?” He lifted his hands and let them drop. “I’d give anything up for that.”

Sharon sighed and said nothing. 

Steve supposed there was nothing left to say.

\---

**Purfleet Asylum**  
**an hour later**

“Your lover hasn’t come back for you yet.” T’Challa folded his arms and regarded Rogers. They sat together in Dr. Romanoff’s study. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“Probably because he’s smart enough to know you’re here.” Rogers looked at him with clear distaste. “He’ll come back for me when he’s got a plan.”

T’Challa raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps he’ll leave you to die, as he did your friend Tony Stark?”

“You don’t know anything about him.” Rogers’ eyes narrowed. “If you did, you’d know better than to say that.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“You know our history.” Rogers folded his arms. “You know who we were and what we did all those years ago. You know what we meant to each other back then, and he’s had four hundred years to pine for me. You think he’s going to walk away and leave me now?” He snorted. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“We destroyed of all his coffins,” T’Challa said evenly. “He has no place to rest, which means he’ll grow weaker and weaker until he too can be very easily destroyed.”

Rogers’ face contorted suddenly into a grimace of rage. “I’m going to kill you,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“I suppose you would like to.” T’Challa sat back in his chair and regarded Rogers for a moment. “But that won’t help him, and it won’t help you.” Before Rogers could interrupt with a stream of righteous indignation, he held up a hand. “You drank his blood. You’re changing. And unless you help us track him down, there will be nothing we can do for either of you.”

Rogers threw up his hands.“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that you’re becoming a vampire, and like all vampires, you’ll be driven insane with bloodlust and will be liable to kill those you care about.” At the look on Rogers’ face, T’Challa added, “He failed to mention that to you, did he? Did he also fail to mention that you’ll be in his thrall?”

“That’s - no.” Rogers shook his head. “Wait. Then why isn’t Dr. Romanoff in his thrall? Or Tony?”

“Dr. Romanoff broke out of his thrall some time ago, though you’d have to press her for the details.” T’Challa narrowed his eyes. “As for Stark, he still is, but the Count hasn’t seen fit to summon him. Likely because he’s been distracted by you.” He drummed his fingers along the edge of the desk. “Now, are you going to assist us?”

Rogers hesitated, then looked over at him warily. “What do you want me to do?”

For a long moment, T’Challa merely looked at him, weighing the chances that this clueless, lovestruck man would do the stupid thing. 

Of course he would. That much was obvious.

“I want you to reach out to him,” he finally said. “You’re in his thrall now. You should have an almost telepathic connection to him. Tell him to come to us.” He spread his hands. “To parlay, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Rogers looked at him with predictable wry disdain. T’Challa could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “All right. I’ll try.”

Rogers closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate. After a minute or two, a strange expression rippled across his face and he opened his eyes again. The hint of a sly smile played at the corners of his mouth and eyes. 

“All right,” he said again. “I did it.”

T’Challa sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose. “You told him to run back to Transylvania.” He looked at Rogers. “Didn’t you?”

Rogers looked for all the world like a landed fish. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times, and his eyes went wide. When he finally did answer, it was in a voice far louder than would have been required. 

“No.” His eyes darted from side to side a few times before coming to rest on T’Challa again. “No, that’s… that’s stupid.”

T’Challa raised an eyebrow.

“You just want to expect the worst of me,” Rogers offered challengingly, lifting his chin. There was very little heat in his words, though.

T’Challa sighed and shook his head. “ _Oyinbo_...” He looked past Rogers to the door. “Dr. Romanoff?” 

Predictably, the doctor entered a moment later.

Of course she had been listening.

“The vampire’s been instructed to flee to Transylvania, courtesy of our friend here,” he said without preamble. “Just as we predicted.”

“Of course,” she offered past a wearily arched eyebrow in Rogers’ direction. “Which means we can proceed as planned.”

“What?” Rogers’ face returned to its previous state of flabbergasted astonishment. “You two…?” He looked back and forth between T’Challa and Dr. Romanoff for a moment, but as the realization dawned on him, his eyes hardened and his mouth formed into a tight line. “You used me to set him up, you…”

Rogers started to rise to his feet, but Dr. Romanoff held up her hand. “Don’t do anything foolish, Rogers. We’re not going to hurt him. We’re just going to make sure he’s not in any position to hurt anyone else.”

“And,” T’Challa added, “we need to make sure you’re not going to hurt anyone either.”

There was no time to waste. 

\---

**_From the journal of Sharon Carter_ **  
**_undated_ **

_I can’t look past this betrayal. How I betrayed Steve. How we betrayed each other. We’re two fools muddling toward our destruction, heedless of who might be in our paths._

_But I can save him. And I will._

_We left London immediately in pursuit of the Count, traveling by train and then violent, stormy seas to the Continent. We suspect that the Count will travel by ship to the Romanian port of Varna, which will take him at least a week. But we are traveling by train, and so we’ll be there days before his arrival._

_And we will burn his ship and destroy him._

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Sharon slammed her journal shut and looked up into the smiling face of the cowboy, Sam Wilson, standing easily in the aisle of the train’s dining car. They hadn’t spoken much during the first leg of the journey, but any distraction would have been welcome just then.

She sighed. “My thoughts are everywhere, and none of them are pretty.”

“Well, hanging onto ugly thoughts isn’t a great idea either.” He sat down opposite her, and the waiter set out a pair of glasses and a bottle of something alcoholic. Sam poured each of them a glass. “Keeping them to yourself won’t make them any prettier. And it won’t do wonders for your sleeping habits; you can take my word for that.”

“Word taken. My sleeping habits are shot. My whole life is shot.” She smiled weakly and then lifted the glass. “Cheers.”

“Your whole life?” Sam raised an eyebrow and tipped a third of the amber-colored liquid in the glass down his throat. “Do you think you might be overstating things a little?”

Sharon threw back the drink, nearly choked as it burned down her throat, and looked at Sam with watery eyes. “Not really, no.” She took another, more cautious sip of the whiskey. “I had an affair with three vampires. My husband’s been sleeping with a vampire who is also his lover from four hundred years ago. He’s slowly turning into a vampire now, and we got married anyway, and just…” 

She shook her head. Blew out a breath.

“It’s so fucked.”

Sam appeared to try to stifle his snort of laughter, but to no avail. “That’s one way of putting it, I guess.” He shook his head, smiling, and casually tossed off half of the remaining whiskey in his glass. “But I thought the whole point of taking this trip was to try and set right the things we can.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh yes.” She swirled her glass around and stared out the window. “I’m going to save Steve from this nightmare, no matter the cost.”

“No matter the cost?” Sam echoed, his eyebrow never dropping. “That doesn’t sound foreboding at all, no sir.”

Sharon looked back at him. “He’s turning into a vampire. And part of it… at least part of it…” She held her breath for a long moment, but she couldn’t hold the words in anymore. “Part of it’s my fault.”

“How?” The look on Sam’s face actually registered non-comprehension for a moment. He set his glass down. “How could any of it have been your fault?”

Sharon reached for the whiskey bottle, topped up her glass, and then downed it in one shot. This time, the burn felt pleasant. Numbing. 

“I told the Count about him. I showed him Steve’s picture. And I…” She closed her eyes. Licked her lips. “I stayed in that castle for weeks, having my affair with three vampires. I should’ve tried to escape earlier. I should’ve-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Sam held up his hand, shaking his head. “You’re lucky you got away at all, and you’re going to beat yourself up over not having done it sooner?” He waved his hand dismissively. “There’s a lot of blame to be slinging around here, but none of it ought to land on you. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, definitely with the wrong man, and you did what you could. None of this is your fault.”

She looked up sharply. “What do you mean, ‘the wrong man’? I never slept with the Count.” She shrugged. “His consorts. But not him.”

“Huh?” Sam’s eyebrows knit in obvious confusion. “I didn’t say you slept with him. All I said was that you got out when you could.” He drained off what was left in his glass and refilled it, thumbing the cork out of the bottle and pouring without looking. “And that there are enough bad feelings going around as it is without you dumping any more on yourself undeserved.”

She said nothing, and for a long moment, they drank in companionable silence. 

Finally Sharon said, “And why are you here at all? What’s in this all for you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” Sam took a long sip from his glass - a sip that consumed a good quarter of what he’d filled it with - before setting the glass down and continuing. “It’s a chance to do something meaningful. Something good and decent and noble.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to be the kind of person who’d ask what was in it for me before doing something like that.”

Sharon managed what felt like her first real smile in weeks. “Well,” she said quietly, “it’s nice to know that there are still good people in this world.”

\---

**On the train**  
**a day later**

They’d received a wire earlier that morning, informing them that their first plan - to intercept James’ ship at Varna - was now impossible. He’d sailed past Varna to Galatz, in the north where the train couldn’t reach. It was obvious that the mental connection between Rogers and James was strong enough that either James had been reading Rogers’ mind or - probably more likely - Rogers had been able to contact James and tell him of their plans.

“How are we supposed to catch him now?” Sharon shook her head in disgust and looked back and forth between Natasha and T’Challa.

“It’s a straight enough shot from Varna to Galatz,” Sam Wilson chimed in, tapping at the map spread out on the table before them. “Only two hundred miles or so. With fast enough horses, we’d be able to make it there before him.”

“We can’t put all our eggs in one basket though.” Natasha shook her head, looking doubtfully over at T’Challa. She didn’t relish the idea of doing what she was about to suggest, especially knowing that T’Challa and Ayo wanted to kill James rather than chasten or cure him, but their options were quickly dwindling. “Supposing we split up? Half of us can ride north to Galatz, and the rest of us can take the train to the end and try to intercept the ship before it makes port.”

T’Challa folded his arms and frowned thoughtfully. “We can use Rogers as our decoy.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at T’Challa. “How do you mean?” She didn’t much like the idea of where that line of reasoning seemed to be going. “Give him false information and let him lead James into a trap? That’s taking an awful risk, don’t you think?”

Before T’Challa could reply, Ayo walked into the car. “He’s deteriorating rapidly,” she said without preamble. “It won’t be long.”

Natasha sighed heavily and walked to the door. “I’ll go check on him.” 

Unsurprisingly, Sharon followed her.

They found Rogers lying in one of the pull-down berths in the sleeping car, a blanket drawn up around his neck and his eyes half-closed. A deathly pallor had descended over him, and his half-open mouth showed that his teeth had become noticeably longer and sharper. 

Natasha’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the realization that Stark had looked this way a day or two before his death.

Ayo was right. It wouldn’t be long at all.

“Oh my God.” Sharon sat down on the edge of the berth and put a hand on Rogers’ forehead. “Steve? You’ve got to hold on.”

“He’s calling me,” Rogers croaked hoarsely past dry white lips. His eyelids fluttered as he turned his head weakly to regard Sharon. “I have to go to him.”

“No.” Sharon shook her head. “No, you don’t. You hang on, do you hear me? Hang on.”

“He needs me.” Rogers’ eyes rolled back into their sockets, showing bloodshot whiteness. “He’s so alone… I can’t leave him alone…”

“He doesn’t need you!” Sharon said the words so fiercely that for a moment, Natasha thought she might start shaking him. “We need you here. We need you alive. You’ve got to hang on.”

“You heard what Ayo said,” Natasha murmured uncomfortably. “The best chance he’s got is if we can make it to James quickly.”

Sharon shifted and looked at her for a long moment. “Yes. I agree.” Something unsettling and dark flickered across her eyes. “We should get to him quickly.”

Natasha nodded wordlessly, thinking she knew all too well what that look meant. Thinking that she’d have to defend James against more than T’Challa and Ayo when they finally caught up to him. Thinking that she didn’t relish the idea of standing alone between him and everyone else. 

And thinking, as she looked at Rogers while he lay dying before her, that they’d better hurry up if they wanted any sort of positive conclusion to this madness.

\---

**_From the journal of Sharon Carter_ **  
**_undated_ **

_The Count has outmaneuvered us once more. His Roma helpers were waiting for him at Galatz, and they are now heading toward the Borgo Pass with us in pursuit._

_I know that Steve is entirely in the Count’s thrall now._

_I will find the Count and I will end this. So help me God, I’ll free us all._

\---

**Transylvania**  
**several days later**

In the days that it had taken T’Challa and Ayo to reach the Count’s castle, Rogers’ condition had grown steadily worse. 

For much of the journey, he had remained listless and prone in the back of the carriage, occasionally calling out to his ‘Bucky’, but doing little else. But at other times, he had actively resisted them, even attempting to leap out of the carriage at one point, until T’Challa had sedated him with a suicidally high dosage of morphine.

However, if Rogers were unconscious, his mental connection with the Count would be lost, and thus they would have no decoy.

For the umpteenth time, T’Challa wished they could have simply traveled to Transylvania via cloud whale. However, the climate would have proven intolerable for the beast. England was bad enough, but Romania would have been far too cold for such a massive creature.

They made camp right outside the castle walls. Neither T’Challa nor Ayo were foolhardy enough to attempt to breach the walls at nighttime, and so they would just have to wait until morning.

If Rogers were still alive in the morning, they would count that as a victory.

“You should eat something, Professor.” Ayo pushed a bowl of stew into T’Challa’s hands. “It’s not much, but... “ She smiled. “Better than the English food, no? Perhaps it’ll be spicy enough - for these people - to keep Rogers alive one more night?”

T’Challa returned the smile. “Why don’t we find out?” He knelt down next to Rogers; his pale skin was waxy and sheened with sweat. 

It wouldn’t be long.

“You must eat.” He offered the bowl to him. “To keep your strength.”

“Not hungry.” Rogers shook his head weakly, a slight tremor running through him at irregular intervals. “He’s calling me. He’s very close now.”

Ayo pulled out a wickedly curved blade and doused it in holy water. “Let him come.”

T’Challa smiled thinly. “We’re not in a hurry this evening.” He looked down at Rogers. “But unless you wish to die this night, you must eat.”

“Told you.” Rogers shivered again, looking at the bowl before him as though it were filled with maggots. “Not hungry.”

A sudden movement on top of the wall drew T’Challa’s attention. Three shapes leapt lithely down from the wall and landed before them. They circled, two women and a one very large man, catlike and feral in their movements, long hair hanging in their faces and eyes glinting redly in the flickering torchlight.

“Come, brother.” The man’s voice was deep and resonant as he circled. “Cast thee off the yoke of thine mortality and join thy brethren.”

“What he said,” the more voluptuous of the two women offered. “Leave the lady for me, though. She looks yummy.”

“They both look like they have some fight in them,” the slighter woman said with a smile in her voice. “All four of us can dine.”

T’Challa stood and drew a pistol from his jacket. “He’s not yours yet. Not tonight.” 

Ayo stepped forward, blade in hand. “Professor?”

Rogers - who had been shivering uncontrollably for some time - began to shudder and writhe. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and he pitched forward onto the hard ground, entangling himself in the blanket as hoarse, guttural cries escaped from his throat.

“Slake thy thirst, brother,” called the male vampire almost tauntingly as Rogers agonized. “Drink thy fill and stand by the side of thy kinsmen.”

T’Challa grabbed Rogers by the back of the collar, pushing him face down into the frozen ground. “Ayo.” He aimed the pistol at the male vampire. “If you please.”

Obligingly Ayo dragged the blade across the ground, forming a circle around the three of them. 

Rogers began to struggle, and T’Challa pushed down on him harder. “We’re safe within this circle. This is holy ground,” he said through gritted teeth. “Leave this place -”

“You whores of Satan,” Ayo finished, blade glinting in the firelight.

“Ooh, feisty.” The shapely female vampire bared her fangs in a taunting smile. “I think I’ll keep you. You’re fun.”

T’Challa shot her in the face with a blast of holy water.

The result was instantaneous. 

The woman screeched horribly, clasping her hands to her face where the holy water smoked and burned, and her compatriots roared their own anger. Their faces contorted in rage, becoming gruesome parodies of their former beauty, and though they flung themselves with unearthly speed and power against the circle, they could not pass its boundary.

Finally, cursing in several tongues, the three retreated. But they did not go far, and T’Challa could only watch in horrified anger as they tore the screaming horses to bloody shreds.

“Professor…” 

T’Challa tore his eyes from the gory spectacle, and his mind from the process of wondering just how they were going to manage to get away from this place, in time to see Rogers get to his feet.  
All traces of his earlier malady seemed to have vanished, and T’Challa was unsettled to see the red glint in his eyes. 

He was very far gone, indeed.

“We’ve got a while before anyone else gets here.” Rogers’ face had taken on a leering quality, and his voice had dropped to a seductive whisper as he moved towards T’Challa with unhurried steps. “You’ve tried your hardest to take care of me. Now let me take care of you.”

T’Challa exchanged a glance with Ayo. She raised an eyebrow.

“Tony would’ve done this, you know.” Rogers whispered the words with a conspiratorial smile as he reached out to put his arms around T’Challa’s neck and slide in close for an embrace. “He once told me he found you ‘exotic and alluring’.”

Ayo snorted. “As opposed to pasty and vanilla?”

Rogers threw Ayo a very nasty look, the redness in his eyes seeming to flash in the semi-darkness, before turning back to T’Challa with that layered-on sweetness again. “Don’t worry about her, Professor. You can have me all to yourself.”

T’Challa sighed. “White boy...” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a consecrated Host, and pressed it against Rogers’ forehead. “No.”

The effect was as immediate as it was awful. A sharp sizzle, like a red-hot iron applied to a wet cloth, rose to his ears only to be drowned out by Rogers’ scream of enraged agony. Recoiling, Rogers clapped both hands to his forehead to cover the angry red burn that had arisen before stumbling and collapsing to the ground in a noisy heap.

“Too late,” he gasped in a strained voice. “I belong to him now. I’m his, and he’s mine, and there’s nothing you or anybody else can do to change that.”

T’Challa smiled grimly. “There are a few things that can be done to change that, Mr. Rogers. For your sake, let us hope we don’t have to.”


	8. And Set This Spirit Free

**Transylvania**  
**the next morning**

The pain in Steve’s forehead had faded away to a dull ache in the hours that had passed. He suspected, though, that if he touched it the pain would return with a vengeance. 

He hadn’t slept, of course; he hadn’t felt the urge to do so despite having been awake the whole night. But now that the night was over and the sun was climbing steadily higher in the sky, he felt a different sort of sluggish weariness beginning to creep over him. The sunlight, he realized, was stealing away his strength. 

T’Challa had gone into the castle at first light, leaving his assistant to stand guard over Steve, but he’d come back only a minute or two ago with a very perturbed look on his face. The three other vampires, he’d said, were gone. He’d searched the castle and found no trace of them whatsoever. Steve had breathed a huge and welcome sigh of relief at this news, knowing that T’Challa would have slaughtered them in their sleep without hesitation if he’d found them. His assistant seemed angry, and Steve simply couldn’t resist the temptation to poke at her for it.

“Well, hell,” he said with a small smug smile on his face, “you must be awfully disappointed.”

“And you are relieved?” Her hand tightened around the hilt of her blade. “So ready to join the Count’s little harem?”

“More like happy to see you deprived of the sick enjoyment you get out of killing people.” Steve looked her dead in the eyes. “Why the hell are you so eager for it anyway? What’s the matter with you?”

Her eyes flashed in anger. “I seek to protect the innocent against the undead, you ridiculous fool. I don’t run towards death with my arms open. What’s the matter with _you_?”

“I’m a soldier.” Steve felt his jaw clench involuntarily as he defiantly lifted his chin. “I faced death every day of my life four hundred years before you were born. I know what it really means to protect the innocent, and if you’re interested, it doesn’t involve cutting people’s throats in their sleep.” His voice rose. “And when I lost the man I fought beside, the man I loved, the man who represented everything I was fighting for, that was what made me run toward death.” 

She looked unimpressed, and that only spurred Steve forward. 

He shook his head. “Can you even understand what that means? Can you imagine what it felt like to wake up afterwards and have to face the world without him? And can you understand that when I found him again and realized there was a way I could have him forever, that what I’m doing is running _away_ from death and toward an eternity with him?”

“At the expense of your wife?” the woman shot back. “Who you betrayed? Who was imprisoned by the very monster you claim to love so much?”

“She and I have already had this discussion.” Steve gave a derisive, snorting laugh. “You’re going to be disappointed if you think you can come up with anything new to say to me on that subject.”

T’Challa looked up from the small notebook that he had been writing in. “I’m not concerned about your love life, Mr. Rogers.” He snapped the book shut and slid it into his jacket. “But I am concerned about what will happen to you once you fully change.”

“That’s good of you.” Steve turned away from T’Challa’s assistant, glad to show her his back, and took a few steps towards the doctor. “But I have no plans to become a murderous monster. I don’t even want to be a soldier anymore. I just want to be with Bucky.”

T’Challa smiled thinly. “And how will you keep him from being a murderous monster? We don’t know if the serum will work on a vampire as old as him, or if he’ll even be willing to take it at all.”

“He probably wouldn’t be willing to take it if you and your assassin -” Steve jerked his head back at T’Challa’s assistant. “- were the ones trying to convince him, no. But he’ll listen to me. He always has.”

A look of… was it sympathy? flashed across T’Challa’s eyes. “I suppose we shall see, Mr. Rogers.”

The rest of the day passed very slowly. Steve was trapped within the confines of the circle T’Challa’s assistant had drawn on the ground, but he found he didn’t much feel like moving. A sort of stupor descended upon him as the sun rolled its way lazily across the sky, but still he wasn’t sleepy. Deeply lethargic and drained of energy, yes, but not tired either.

T’Challa and his assistant - who he had finally learned was named Ayo - spent the day eyeing the horizon. Well, at least T’Challa did; Ayo spent an inordinate amount of time checking and obsessively sharpening her weapons. But the day wore on, and as it did, the pair of them seemed to grow more and more tense with anticipation.

Finally, as the sun was beginning to descend, Steve heard the high ringing whinny of a horse. Several horses. He turned sharply at the sound, not seeing anything at first, but realized to his astonishment that his vision was sharpening the more he concentrated on looking at the horizon. His hearing, too, which was likely the reason he’d been able to hear the horses he now saw cresting the horizon.

An escort group of a dozen or more Roma flanked a single carriage. The Roma, all heavily armed with swords and guns, rode hard and recklessly fast but never strayed more than ten feet from the sides of the carriage. Steve didn’t need to be able to see inside the carriage to know that Bucky was in there; all the confirmation he needed came in the form of the trio of horses that raced after them in hot pursuit.

Even at this distance, Steve could clearly see the figures of Sam Wilson, Dr. Romanoff, and - his heart froze - Sharon. As he watched, Sam stood in the stirrups and twirled a rope over his head like a rider in a circus, flinging the lasso into the knot of Roma horsemen. His arms pinned to his sides, the man was yanked right out of his saddle to tumble into the road, where the rest of them quickly left him far behind. Dr. Romanoff stayed back out of the way, but Sharon dug her heels into the flanks of her own mount, her eyes fixed only on the carriage.

T’Challa pulled a strange looking rifle out from under a blanket and readied it. “Prepare yourself, Ayo.”

Ayo nodded, curved blade in hand. “Always, Professor.”

Steve turned to face them, panic rising in his chest. “You can’t hurt him.” His tone was half-pleading, half-threatening. If anything happened to Bucky now…

T’Challa narrowed his eyes, gazing through the scope of his rifle.“Only if he hurts others first.” He kept careful aim on the carriage. “I’m going to attempt to shoot him with a suicidally high dosage of the serum. And if it works…”

Ayo smiled grimly. “And if it doesn’t…”

“You’ll have to kill me first.” Steve glared at her, knowing she’d like nothing better than to take him up on his challenge and - at the moment, at least - wanting nothing more than to oblige her. “And that’s not going to work out so well for you.”

He turned back to the pursuit, silently willing Bucky and his Roma escorts to move faster, to outrace their pursuers and come to him so the two of them could be reunited. 

As he watched, though, Dr. Romanoff seemed to decide to join the battle in earnest. She leapt gracefully from the saddle in a high arc, gown flaring up around her knees, coming down astride one of the horses and flinging its startled Roma rider off to the side one-handed. She repeated this maneuver several times, until between her and Sam, the Roma’s numbers had been reduced to a mere handful. And still they rode on, at breakneck speed, racing for the castle with all the strength they possessed.

The last of the Roma, skilled enough riders to elude both Sam and Dr. Romanoff, barreled down the last stretch of roadway leading up to the castle. T’Challa and Ayo rushed toward them, weapons at the ready. Steve, still entrapped in the circle, could do nothing but stand there helplessly and watch as Dr. Romanoff leapt into the air one final time to come down on the roof of the carriage itself and fling all her weight to the side while holding onto the edge of the roof.

The carriage overbalanced, crashed to the ground on its side, and spilled out a very dazed and weak-looking Bucky. One of his Roma helpers ran to his side and hauled him to his feet, and together they staggered toward the yawning entrance to the castle. 

T’Challa turned, rifle at the ready, and fired, but not before one of the Roma tackled him to the ground, spoiling the shot. 

Sharon rode hard toward the castle, only to be intercepted and knocked off her horse by a Roma rider. They struggled on the cold ground, tumbling end over end. Ayo broke them apart, strong arming the man aside and pulling Sharon to her feet. 

Dr. Romanoff leapt onto the shoulders of another man and, with an acrobatic twist, wrenched him right off his feet and onto the hard ground with a thud. Sam roped and tied the man that had tackled T’Challa, dragging him bodily off the doctor and securing him tightly.

T’Challa trained the rifle on Bucky once more, only for the last Roma helper to grab the rifle by the barrel and attempt to wrench it out of his hands. For a moment, the two men grappled furiously, until T’Challa kicked him squarely in the chest.

The man staggered backwards and fell right into Steve. 

Which broke the circle.

Steve immediately leapt to his feet and raced towards Bucky. His only thought was to get to him, protect him, keep him safe, fight beside him if necessary, but to keep any harm from coming to him.

“Bucky!” he shouted. “Bucky, hold on!”

Sharon looked from Bucky to Steve, her mouth hardening into a grim line. She grabbed the curved blade from Ayo suddenly and charged forward, tackling Steve face down onto the ground.

“Count Iarnă!” she shouted, scrambling over Steve’s body. 

Dr. Romanoff shouted something indistinguishable. Steve ran forward with all the failing strength in his body, terror gripping his heart like a fist of frozen steel. But he was too far away to reach Bucky, and all he could do was scream “NO!” as Sharon raised Ayo’s blade and slashed Bucky’s throat open.

Steve’s world ended in that instant.

He wasn’t aware of pushing past T’Challa and Ayo, or of shoving Sharon aside. He barely felt himself sinking down beside Bucky and cradling him in his arms, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, to hold in the life that was gushing out of his love. All he could see through the tears clouding his vision was Bucky’s face. 

“Hold on, Bucky,” he babbled helplessly, pressing both hands against Bucky’s neck in a desperate effort to hold onto him. “Just hold on. You can’t leave me, not now, not again…”

“Hey, Stevie…” Bucky barely choked the words out. Blood bubbled up onto his lips. “Hey…”

Dr. Romanoff was next to them in that instant. “My God, why?” She looked at Sharon. “Why?”

Sharon stood, breathing heavily. The blade clattered to the ground. Sam came up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“The serum.” Steve looked around wildly, his eyes settling on T’Challa. He couldn’t look at Sharon, not yet. “Don’t just stand there, help him! Use the serum!”

Pity flashed across T’Challa’s eyes. “It doesn’t work like that, Mr. Rogers.”

Ayo said nothing.

“No.” Steve shook his head, the tears welling up again, and wrapped his arms around Bucky. The blood soaking steadily into his clothes didn’t register to him. It might as well have been his own life that was ebbing away. “No, no, no…”

And then, suddenly, there was rage. White-hot, burning through every nerve in his body.

He leapt to his feet and seized Sam’s rifle with both hands, wrenching it out of his grasp and shoving him backwards onto the ground. He rammed his shoulder into Dr. Romanoff’s chest, knocking her off balance, slammed the stock of the rifle into Ayo’s midsection as she came forward to intervene, folding her in half and leaving her desperately sucking air, and lined up the sights directly on Sharon’s heart.

“Are you happy now?” He was quivering with anger, just barely holding his aim steady. “Was that what you wanted all along, all of you?” His eyes settled on all of them in turn, but found their way back to Sharon and burned a hole in her. 

“Steve…” Sharon started, but trailed off into nothing. 

“Will you do the same thing to me?” he demanded, cocking the rifle and raising his voice to an angry shout. “I’ll bet you’re just licking your chops, aren’t you?”

T’Challa stepped forward, holding a hand out in front of Sharon. It was unclear if he meant to keep her from advancing, or Steve from advancing on her. Perhaps both.

“Let him go,” he said steadily. “Let them both go.”

“You stay right where you are,” Steve growled. “All of you. If any of you even twitch, I swear to God I’ll put a hole in every one of your heads.”

Somehow he knelt down and scooped Bucky up in his arms like a child. Somehow he staggered away from the group of them and headed towards the castle, his rage dissolving away into tears as he went. And somehow, he made it inside before collapsing to his knees on the flagstone.

“I can’t do this,” he sobbed into Bucky’s shoulder. “I can’t go on without you. I’ll die without you.”

Something like a smile flitted across Bucky’s bloodstained lips. “Be… okay…” He reached out and traced a finger down Steve’s cheek. “S’okay…”

“It’s not,” Steve sobbed. “It was never okay without you. It’ll never be okay again without you.” He bent his head to Bucky’s, their foreheads touching, and cried at the terrible unfairness of it all. 

“I won’t let you go alone,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “If you die, I’ll be right behind you.”

Bucky’s hand dropped away. “... love you,” he whispered, voice thin and distant. “Always…”

Steve managed a single, lingering kiss on Bucky’s already-slackening lips before dissolving into heaving, wracking sobs that spattered hot tears over Bucky’s cold face. 

The heavy door scraped shut behind him. The hem of a gown rustled against the flagstone.

“Rogers?” Dr. Romanoff said softly. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Steve?” 

“Get away from me!” he growled, flinging out his arm to get her to back away. “You promised not to hurt him. You promised!”

“I tried…” Dr. Romanoff started, the rest of her sentence dissolving into a sigh. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t what I wanted. For either of you.”

“What does it matter what you wanted?” 

Steve felt his face contorting again, felt a fresh wave of agonized tears pour from his eyes and couldn’t do a thing to stop them, and above all felt that murderous rage rising again. Where in the hell had he left the rifle? 

“What does anything matter anymore?” He got his feet under him and rose, his hands curling into fists. “Come on. Maybe you’ll be able to kill me, but I can damn sure take you with me.”

Dr. Romanoff looked at him, her expression an infuriating mixture of pity and sympathy. “I’m not going to fight you, Rogers.”

“Why?” Steve demanded, stepping forward. “You’ve taken it this far. Take it all the way to the end."

“Then… where does that leave me?” a soft voice just barely murmured from the floor.

Dr. Romanoff’s eyes widened. 

Steve didn’t dare to believe it. But he looked down anyway, and what he saw made his heart stand still in his chest. 

Bucky was looking up at him, the gaping wound in his throat gone, his eyes coming back into focus.

Bucky was alive.

“Bucky?” Steve whispered, dropping to his knees, placing both hands on Bucky’s face and bringing his own face close enough that the tips of their noses touched.

“You cried all over me,” Bucky said breathlessly, his lips brushing against Steve’s. “I’m practically drowning here.”

Steve threw his arms around Bucky, enveloping him in a crushing hug and feeling as though he were drowning himself. In anxiety, in relief, in a whirlpool of emotions he couldn’t even begin to process.

“I love you, Bucky,” he kept repeating. “I love you.”

“You must’ve broken the curse.” There was something like awe in Dr. Romanoff’s voice. “Whatever magic the Hydra cult used to turn James into a vampire, you broke it somehow.”

“I did?” Steve turned around and looked at the doctor in absolute bewilderment. “Wait.” 

He brought his fingertips up to gingerly touch his own forehead, where T’Challa had burned him with the communion wafer as though it had been a white-hot branding iron, and felt nothing.

“I did.” His face went slack with awe. “I… I really did.”

“You’re something else, Stevie.” Slowly, Bucky pushed himself into a sitting position. His hand lingered on his healed throat and he looked at Steve in a mixture of pure adoration and wonder. “You’re really something else.”

“No, I’m not.” Steve shook his head and put his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “I just love you, is all.”

Bucky managed an exhausted smile. “So love broke the curse?”

An absurd bubble of laughter welled up from somewhere inside Steve. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “But I do know that I love you more than anything in the world, even more than my own life, and I couldn’t go through losing you all over again.”

“That’s all very nice, boys,” Dr. Romanoff said suddenly. “Now get out of here.”

“What?” Steve looked up, remembering that Dr. Romanoff was still there at all. “What are you talking about?”

“Get out of here,” she repeated. “Before everyone else gets too curious and comes looking for you.” She looked at Bucky for a long moment and then back at Steve. “Take James and go. Run away.”

A tumult of emotions flooded through Steve’s heart - confusion, gratitude, guilt - but receded as he looked down at Bucky. There was nothing to keep him in England any longer. There was no reason for him to return, and every reason in the world for both of them to get away and find a new place to begin.

“Come on, Buck.” He held Dr. Romanoff’s gaze for a moment, nodded his thanks, and helped Bucky to his feet. “Let’s go.”

They didn’t look back.


	9. Epilogue - Love, Oh Love

Brother Bruce found Brother Vision on the steps of the monastery, waving goodbye to the Roma twins that had stayed with them for the past few nights.

“They’re good kids,” Brother Bruce said fondly, watching as the twins disappeared over the hillside. “Hopefully they’ll come back and stay a while longer. I think they both have much to teach us.”

“Perhaps.” Brother Vision looked doubtful. “The girl’s magic and the boy’s speed seem innate, not learned.” He seemed to ponder for a moment, then turned to Brother Bruce and raised an eyebrow. “More tea?”

“Yes, of course.” They turned and headed into the monastery, Brother Bruce adding, “And we have our other guests to consider as well.”

Brother Vision frowned. “I don’t think they take tea, Brother.”

“No, probably not.” Brother Bruce smiled slightly. “But it’s polite to offer.”

A few minutes later, Brother Vision opened the door to a guest room, where three visitors sat on the floor, clad in rough monk’s robes. 

Brother Bruce followed, balancing a tray containing a teapot and several cups. “So then,” he said pleasantly, “would you care to share some tea?”

“Nay, Brother.” The man shook his head, blonde hair tumbling into his eyes. “Thy mortal libations cannot quench my thirst.” 

“Though it’s very kind of you to offer,” interjected the slighter of the two women, frowning at the man. “We don’t get much of anything out of ordinary food and drink, I’m afraid. We need… alternative nourishment.”

“We drink blood.” The other woman shrugged and looked at her companions. “What? It’s dumb to beat around the bush like that. Besides, these guys seem like pretty nonjudgmental types.”

Brother Bruce licked his lips and settled down on the floor across from their guests. Brother Vision sat next to him.

They’d have a long way to go with these three.

\---

The moment the cloud whale landed in front of the Royal Medical College, Ayo leapt out of the gondola and into the waiting embrace of her beloved Okoye. 

“I’ve been away for far too long,” she said. “And I’ve missed you every night we’ve been apart.”

Okoye smiled and stepped back, eyeing her wife critically. “You’re practically skin and bones. What have those people been feeding you?”

“Bland mush.” Ayo linked arms with her wife. “Would you believe they think bay leaves are an exotic spice?”

Behind them, T’Challa snorted. “Do feed your wife, Okoye. I’m going to crawl into bed with mine.”

They parted ways, and before long, T’Challa was inside his spacious suite situated in the college’s overflowing garden. 

The suite was dark and quiet, and he wasted no time ridding himself of clothing and doing exactly what he said he was going to do - sliding into bed beside his beautiful wife. 

Ororo shifted and stirred slightly. “You’re back,” she mumbled into her pillow, pushing her snow-white mane back off of her face. “Was your trip a success?”

T’Challa was silent for a moment, his hand coming to rest on Ororo’s swollen belly. “Define success,” he finally said.

She turned her head to face him, opening one crystal-blue eye and looking at him critically. “What went wrong?” she asked simply.

“No one died. Permanently.” His hand lingered on her belly. “And you’ve not had our child in my absence. So I suppose it was very successful, indeed.”

She smiled sleepily at him and leaned in to kiss him. “Go to sleep, husband,” she yawned, closing her eyes. “And tomorrow, tell me of your success.”

\---

The warm Virginia breeze was light and refreshing, making the low branches of the trees sway gently and bringing the scent of the witch hazel plants to Sharon’s nose as she sat on the covered veranda and nursed a tall glass of iced tea.

In the distance, almost out of Sharon’s view on the other side of a split-rail fence, a huge herd of cows munched contentedly at the grass and intermittently mooed.

“Ribs are almost ready,” Sam announced, coming out onto the veranda. “You’re about to eat real food for the first time.

The ribs had been smoking over hickory wood for the past eighteen hours. Sharon hadn’t realized beef could be cooked that long and still be considered edible. When she’d said as much to Sam, though, he’d simply smiled broadly at her and told her it was far more than just edible. 

“Well, you’ve built it up enough.” She smiled up at Sam. “I don’t know if I can take much more of this anticipation.”

The road to Virginia had been long, arduous, and somewhat convoluted. It had taken a bit of legal wrangling on the part of Aunt Peggy and her firm, but the marriage - which, thankfully, they’d never consummated - had been annulled. And for many reasons - her desire for a fresh start, the fact that her marriage had rather unceremoniously ended, the fact that she’d never seen Virginia, much less any other part of the United States, Sam’s charming manner and captivating smile - she’d gone along with him when he’d left London. And she had yet to regret doing so.

She settled back into her chair and sipped her tea. “So what goes along with the ribs?”

Sam settled back in his chair and took a long pull on his own glass of iced tea. “Oh, you know. Some greens. Some ‘slaw. Maybe some hush puppies.” He glanced at her and grinned. “You don’t know what any of that is, do you?”

“Not a clue.” She smiled into her glass. “Though you should probably tell me before we eat. So I don’t confuse the greens for the hush puppies or anything.”

Sam chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, I’m not telling you anything now. I’d much rather watch you figure it all out.”

Sharon laughed easily, reclining comfortably in her chair and letting the slow-moving ambiance of the place soak in. It would be easy, she thought, as easy as breathing, to let herself settle in here. It felt like the sort of place that would be simple to get used to and very hard to leave.

“All right,” she replied. “But if I make a fool of myself in front of the chef, I’m placing the blame squarely on you.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile poking at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I guess that’s just a risk I’m going to have to take.”

\---

If someone had asked her a day or two ago whether Stark Estate could have been made any more opulent, Natasha would have answered with an arched eyebrow and a gesture towards the gilded statue of Stark Sr. that adorned a marble fountain in the gardens. But the impossible had somehow been achieved in the name of Stark’s wedding to Lord Rhodes and Miss Potts.

“The word ‘lavish’ doesn’t even begin to do justice to this thing.” 

She shook her head, eyeing the gold-rimmed crystal goblet in her hand and the accompanying gold-rimmed three-tiered crystal punch bowl from which it had been filled with a gold-rimmed crystal ladle. 

“I think a number of new adjectives are going to be needed.”

Besides her, Clint munched from a plate piled high with fancy hors d'oeuvres. “Starkesian?” he offered through a mouthful of tuna mousse toast. “Starkiful? Starkesque, even?”

“Why in the name of God are you eating that?” Natasha wrinkled her nose, letting Clint’s efforts at linguistic trailblazing slide for the moment. “I don’t even want to think about what has to be done to tuna to make mousse out of it, much less actually put myself through the torture of having to taste it.”

Clint shrugged. “Pairs nicely with the bacon-wrapped balsamic peaches.”

“How…” 

She couldn’t keep the look of bewilderment off her face as she tried to wrap her head around what Clint had just said. A picture steadfastly refused to take shape in her mind, and finally she just accepted that her brain was trying to protect her. 

Clint arched an eyebrow and proffered the plate toward her. “Would you care for an hors d'œuvre, my lovely Dr. Romanoff? Or a canapé, perhaps?”

“I eat primarily to experience flavors and textures,” she responded dryly. “Pleasant ones exclusively. I haven’t found one single pleasant-looking hors d'œuvre or canapé in this place yet.”

What was pleasant, she reflected as she sipped her punch and eyed the food with suspicion, was that Clint seemed to have accepted her vampirism much more easily than she’d imagined. His mental state had returned entirely to normal, which was to say that he was still Clint. And nothing could have pleased her more.

Clint rooted around the plate for a moment, then held something up with a triumphant grin. “Then you should experience the flavor and texture of this cinnamon pear bruschetta. I find it quite exclusively pleasant.”

“That…” Natasha worked at the idea of it for a moment, then sighed and held out her hand. “That actually sounds pretty good. Give it here.”

It was better than she’d thought it might be, and she was halfway through her second piece when Stark ambled over, a fancy-looking bottle of sarsaparilla in his hands. Lord Rhodes and Miss Potts weren’t far behind him.

“If it isn’t the crazy doctor and her no longer so crazy husband.” Stark’s cravat had already been loosened considerably, most likely by him. “How are you two crazy kids doing?”

Rhodes rolled his eyes. “What my husband means to say is, we’re so glad you could make it.”

Miss Potts was glowing with happiness, resplendent in a beautiful silk wedding gown. “Very glad.” She looked at Rhodes and smirked. “And he’s _our_ husband.”

Rhodes smiled. “Indeed, he is.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it.” Natasha offered Rhodes and Miss Potts her hand, smiling politely at each of them in turn, and offered Stark an arched eyebrow before turning back to Rhodes. “How has your husband been behaving himself lately?”

“I can’t believe you just used the words ‘Tony’ and ‘behaving’ in the same sentence.” Rhodes rolled his eyes again, chuckling. “Seriously, though, he’s been wonderful. Sleeping habits haven’t changed - he always did like staying up all night and then sleeping till afternoon - but he’s started eating his meat very rare.”

Stark shrugged. “Tastes better that way.”

“And he’s been taking the serum.” Miss Potts patted Stark’s arm. “On schedule, I might add.”

Another shrug from Stark. “She keeps the schedule. And the alarm. And the warning bell.”

“I’d have expected nothing less.” Natasha smiled approvingly at Miss Potts, raising her goblet, and spoke to Stark directly. “You’re in capable hands, at least. Your husband and wife ought to be able to keep you out of trouble.”

Clint snorted over his garlic mushroom tartlet before popping it into his mouth. “Because that worked so well for me.”

“Oh, Clint,” Natasha sighed, exasperated. “Garlic? Really? You’d better not even think about kissing me.”

“Garlic?” Stark raised an eyebrow and looked from Lord Rhodes to Miss Potts. “Caterer’s fired. Forever. Effective immediately.”

“Aw, Nat.” Clint dug around his plate. “How’s this? Caramelized onion on baked polenta?” He downed it in one bite. “No more garlic.”

Rhodes shook his head. “We’re not firing the caterer, Tony.” 

“Besides,” Miss Potts added, “you haven’t even come close to eating anything with garlic in it.”

“A good thing, too.” Natasha gave Miss Potts a miniscule smile. “It’d turn his insides out and leave him sick as a dog.” She raised an eyebrow at Clint, who winced and shoveled another tidbit into his mouth.

It had all worked out, she thought as she sipped at her drink and bantered enjoyably with her husband and the newlyweds. It had worked out for everyone. Especially the two people they all made a point of never bringing up in conversation.

\---

The elegant stone towers of the bridge were silhouetted against the sky, the weblike pattern of the interwoven steel cables seeming like gossamer threads. Steve had fallen absolutely in love with it the first time he’d laid eyes on it, and he’d taken to walking there at least once a week and sketching it from various angles. He could almost draw it from memory now.

Brooklyn was certainly different. The continual fog of London was absent, for one thing, as was the persistent damp chill. There were still docks and piers, though; still the ever-present noise and bustle of industry and shipping. And there was a vitality to the place that seemed to outmatch everything London had to offer. 

Brooklyn was alive, Steve thought with a smile as he closed his sketchbook and took one last look up at the bridge before starting off for home - alive and growing in a way that London had ceased to do long ago.

Leaving London had been much easier than Steve might have imagined, for the simple reason that they hadn’t gone back there from Transylvania. While Dr. Romanoff had kept the others occupied, he and Bucky had simply fled the castle and headed west. They’d traveled by rail through Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, and France, finally ending up in the port city of Brest, from which they’d boarded a ship bound for New York.

And now, there they were. Living together in a small, third story flat in a section of Brooklyn called Red Hook and both reveling in the opportunity to live the rest of their lives together.

“Hey Buck?” Steve called out as he pulled the door closed behind him and stepped into the parlor. “I’m home.”

From the kitchen, Bucky said something in reply, but his words were muffled. Steve hung up his jacket and walked into their small kitchen to find Bucky sitting at the table, gnawing at a bloody steak.

“Aw, come on, Buck,” he sighed. “At least use utensils.”

Bucky shrugged. “Tastes better this way,” he muttered around a mouthful of raw beef. 

“How could using your hands make it taste any better than using a knife and fork?” Steve plopped down into the chair beside Bucky and leaned on his elbow to look at him. “You’re just being stubborn.” He chuckled. “And crude.”

“Crude, am I?” 

With slow deliberation, Bucky set his steak down on the plate, picked up a cloth napkin, and wiped off each finger one by one. He kept his eyes on Steve the whole time.

“Well, seeing as I’m not a count anymore…” One finger, and another, and another. “I suppose I’m allowed to be as crude as I like.” He flashed Steve a smile, much less sharp-toothed these days.

“You were never a count to begin with.” Steve chuckled, returning the smile, and reached out to stroke Bucky’s cheek affectionately. “You just pretended you were.” 

“Oh no,” Bucky murmured, leaning into Steve’s touch. “I earned it fair and square.” He closed his eyes. “But I like this better.”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled and leaned in for a kiss. “Me too.”

It was so easy to allow the first kiss to lead into others, to allow the kissing to deepen and to allow their hands to start roaming. It was so easy to stumble their way into the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went and toppling into bed in a frenzied tangle of limbs. It was so easy to lose himself in Bucky’s embrace, in the taut muscle of his body, in the exquisite pleasure of the act itself. 

And it was so easy, afterwards, when they were both panting and sweaty and wonderfully exhausted, to gather Bucky into his arms and just luxuriate in the feeling of being close to him again.

“Do you still like it here?” Bucky traced lazy patterns on Steve’s chest. “I know you have that bridge you’re fond of, but do you like the rest of this place? Half a world away from everything we’ve ever known?”

Steve gave it a moment’s consideration. Thought of their homeland, thought of everything they’d known and loved about it. Thought of everything they’d fought for, everything they’d both nearly died for, and realized that it was all gone. Not because they’d failed in their fight to protect it, not because they hadn’t loved it enough, but because too much time had passed. Because after four hundred years, it had become a different place. The world had become a different place. And the two of them had to find a new place, make a new life in this new world.

“I love it,” he replied with a smile. “It’s new. It’s different. It has a feeling about it that the old country never had, and I feel excited to be part of it.” He felt a shiver run through his body - a thrill of excitement at just what might lie in store for them. “This place is the future, Buck. I can feel it. Can’t you?”

Bucky dropped a kiss on Steve’s chest, then worked his way up, laying a trail of kisses all the way to Steve’s mouth.

“I can feel you,” he murmured, lips brushing lightly against Steve’s. “I want you. Everything else is just details.”

“You’ve got me,” Steve whispered in return, his arms tightening around Bucky and his heart swelling in his chest. “And I’ve got you. And that’s all I ever wanted in all the world.”

Life was good, Steve decided. Life was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, feedback, and kudos are all warmly welcomed, eagerly hoped for, and greatly appreciated.


End file.
